Left Over

When I make my famous smoked salmon paté, there are very few leftovers and the pic above, taken during the launch of Bella’s Betrothal, backs me up. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should say the recipe came out of an article in the Radio Times and the ‘fame’ is localised.)

However, when catering for an indeterminate number, thanks Covid 19, there are going to be leftovers because what hostess would risk running out? And so it was with Christmas Dinner the second – oh, and a wee bittie from Christmas Dinner the first.

The wee bittie was served last night. Scottish Smoked salmon and a chunk of hot smoked with a leek, red pepper and spring onions, morphed into a great pasta sauce with the addition of some chicen stock and leftover double cream.

The bigger event has turned into celery soup for today’s lunch. Why didn’t I know how few of my family like braised celery? No clue. Anyway, their loss is DH and I’s gain. Together with three roast tatties, a spoonful of cooked cauliflower, half the brown gravy from the venison and the scrapings from the carton of cream, I think I have a winner.

Tonight, there’s leftover venison haunch and brown gravy. Add some veg and we’re good for another great meal. Hope the sommelier (aka DH) has some wine leftover, too.

What imaginative recipes have you created that have turned into family or seasonal favourites?

Writing? Ah, yes. Writing.




How do your family experiences translate into writing scenes? Rhobin has asked.

Good question but difficult to find an answer for as I share very little family stuff online. However, I have been pondering it and have come to a conclusion.

I think family experiences infuse my work but are not structural to it.

So, do the actions of any of my characters disappoint the protagonist? Antagonise her? Anger her? Overwhelm her with love? Leave her exasperated in either a funny or despairing way?

Yes, they do and all of that comes out of the experiences of family life.

One major family experience I have acknowledged, because all of the participants were long dead, was that of my granny. Finding herself in changed circumstances, she had to go to work in the mill. One of the overseers ran his hands through her glorious red hair. That indignity/ assault was the inspriation for Jennet in City of Discoveries, the nineteenth century story I wrote to mark the 150th anniversary of the People’s Friend magazine.

City of Discoveries

Another experience I have used often is the way in which the women of many, many families were deprived of an education in order that the males could go on. An aunt told me in some bitterness how her mother had always favoured the boys in that respect and she had always felt she would enjoy maths. It was a view I heard on visits to old people’s homes while working with Citadel Arts’ Group and I used it in my play STAIN REMOVER. It re-surfaces in MARIAH’S MARRIAGE and A MAID AND A MAN and roars through A CLASS OF THEIR OWN with storm force.

I have to say, my own parents never held me back academically. I might also say, that a bright boy in my school class was taken out of school at the earliest leaving-age moment by his blinkered father: “I went to work at fifteen, why should I keep him?”

So, yes, family experiences are in there. Have you discivered an overruling passion in your work?

My fellow robins are listed below and I’m sure there will be lots of interest to be gleaned from their posts.

After, you can scroll down to read Dear Granny Nuisance – my annual Christmas story for loyal readers and casual visitors. Happy Christmas and a Healthy New Year.


Bob Rich

Connie Vines

Skye Taylor

Marci Baun

Judith Copek

Diane Bator

Victoria Chatham

Rhobin L Courtright


Christmas? Not this year, thank you.




“Sean,” Caro said. Realising instantly he couldn’t possibly hear her above Peppa Pig and assorted friends belting out of the TV, she tried again. “Sean!”

“Okay, love. What’s the problem?”

“Your mother has sent me an e-mail about Christmas.” Caro scanned the lines again and handed the phone to her husband so he could read it for himself.

“Right,” Sean said. “And?”

Caro sniffed, sniffed again, and gave way. Tears filled her eyes and flowed across her cheeks.

“I think it’s the nicest letter I’ve ever had,” she managed as she tried to blow her nose and fend off an assault by something furry launched from the settee.

“Really?” Sean sounded mystified and Caro had to remind herself that many non-cooks had no idea of the magnitude of upscaling Christmas dinner meant. He’d already been to the wine shop on the corner and ordered everybody’s particular brand of fizz, beer, gin, tonic and white, red or rosé. It would be delivered in good time and that was it. Job done.

“Dad wants a dry sherry,” Sean spluttered. “Where am I going to get that?”

“The supermarket had one last week. I nearly put it in the trolley, but you were so…”

“Pleased with myself for getting my share of the preparations out of the way. Well, thanks, Caro.” Sean handed the phone back and sank onto a chair.

Caro resisted the temptation to apologise. After all, it was Sean’s fault they were landed with feeding seventeen people and keeping track of five toddlers and three Dachshunds. This was why she had two spreadsheets of timings, one for shopping and one for cooking, tormenting her. He was the one who’d got into one-upmanship banter with his sister and, Caro now suspected, been taken for a ride.

“Why don’t you ask Abi to get it. She did say…”

“If there’s anything we can do. What she meant was if you losers can’t even sort Christmas…”

“Forget it,” Caro snapped, the warmth created by her mum-in-law’s e-mail evaporating like snow off a dyke. “I’ve got a supermarket delivery slot and I can add dry sherry to the list.”

She watched the conflicting emotions cross her husband’s face until he sent her a rueful smile.

“Sorry, Toots. I’ve let us in for more than I knew.” He took the elephant out of her hands and the giraffe from the floor and tossed them back to their two over-excited off-spring. “What exactly is it about Mum’s mail that’s so touching?”

Caro scrolled the mail back and read it through again.

‘Dear Caro, Pete and I are so much looking forward to Christmas Day. He says it will be such a pleasure to relax with his dry sherry and not have to worry about finding enough ice/mixers/nibbles while I stress in the kitchen. Having done thirty Christmas dinners myself, I’ll bet you’re reaching the point of wondering why you ever took it on.

‘I’d like to make my contributions based on my earlier experience. You may find them a little weird, but I think when you look back from Boxing Day, you’ll see the point.

‘You asked me for a spectacular dessert, but I propose to bring:

  • The potatoes, peeled and part-boiled, ready to go into the oven
  • The carrots and parsnips, peeled, sliced and part-boiled
  • A large dish of cooked red cabbage
  • Several plastic boxes containing: sliced lemons and sliced limes, the batter for the pop-overs, brandy-butter, turkey gravy and jelly babies (these always raise my moral)

‘The point is to take out the nuisance stuff and leave to you the chance to have time to make a lovely pud (and get the praise). I cannot tell you how mortified I was when I forgot to par boil potatoes and we all had to wait forty minutes after the starter for the main course!

‘Let me know if this would help, please. If you would genuinely prefer a fancy pudding, then I’ll do that, of course. Love Tania, aka Granny Nuisance.’

“It’s the love,” Caro said finally, “And the understanding. Mum was on the phone within minutes of getting our invite to say she’d bring the crackers and the table napkins.”

“Well,” Sean said, “That helps a bit with all the extra shopping and crackers for seventeen can be expensive.”

Caro thought about that. He was right, of course, and she needed to be more appreciative. Starting off from a point of designing ‘her’ table, she’d seen her mum’s offer as trying to take the limelight, but thinking about it with Tania’s letter, the offer was designed to take the strain. Her mum had also done around thirty Christmas dinners. A more appreciative phone call to her was needed later.

She clicked reply on Tania’s message and began, ‘Dear Granny Nuisance…’

The end

Kaye Jaye says ‘Four beautifully crafted stories, each one a little gem – it’s not a cliche when it is true.’

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