NOTE ON CARTOON: Please fold in the ground almonds after you add the melted chocolate in no. 4, and replace the word ‘brandy’ with ‘rum’ in no. 2 (though either will do.) Correction is courtesy of eagle-eyed reader/cook Patricia Richter, to whom deep gratitude is due.
Take cake. Shop-bought is all very well for les desserts, but homemade cake is right and proper for tea-time, preferably taken in a rose-arbour in the garden, whether yours or borrowed or municipal, it’s the thought that counts. It’s not even the scent and sight and taste of it (though sweetness speaks of summer to northerners in winter) it’s the preparation - the labour that could otherwise be used in more profitable ways, the serious thought that goes into the ingredients, choice of flavourings, the time it takes to beat, mix and bake what is not essential, but is, in essence, for pleasure.
Perfection is not the point. Anyone - ask a six-year-old with a granny - can bake a cake. All you need (give or take) is eggs, flour, sugar, butter, and patience. Cakes don’t like to be hurried. Once you're done with the beating, folding, mixing, tipping and spreading, there's the waiting. Follow the recipe, weigh everything carefully, but above all resist the urge to open the oven-door because it smells so good. Which, of course, is exactly what you do. Who needs perfection in a homemade cake?
Edwardian hostesses in country houses served cake at tea-time (dessert’s another matter). Tea is a frivolous meal, designed to please rather than satisfy hunger. Which is not the same as high tea taken in the nursery with Nanny or in seaside boarding houses by the landlady and probably involves soft-boiled eggs with toast-soldiers. Nor is it meat-tea (cold ham, smoked haddock cooked in milk, more boiled eggs) which was the last meal of the day for workers home from the fields and, more recently, those who work at the coal-face in offices in cities. Teatime-tea is taken mid-afternoon and involves miniature sandwiches, high tea is for children and leads to bedtime, meat tea is taken in early evening, shortly after sun-down.
Right. I’m glad we’ve got that straight. That said, there’s family cake and visitors’ cake. Plain cakes - the cut-and-come again kind that’ll keep for weeks in a tin - are for every day. Fruit cake is for picnics and funerals. Fancy cakes are for weddings, birthdays, christenings and Christmas. Chocolate cake is for sharing (choose your own companion). Cake has always been a little sinful. For Eliza Acton (Modern Cookery, 1845) oven-baked cakes are sweet poisons, though wholesome if boiled in a cloth. It’s all in the mind. If a cake is lavishly iced and decorated into absurdity - Bake-Off - all's well with the world. When plain and unadorned, cake is comfort food, consolation in time of trouble.
For Monica Rawlins, my husband’s godmother and our predecessor in the farmhouse in the wilds of Wales where I lived for twenty-five years, tea-time was a reminder of the days when everyone knew their place, children were seen but not heard, and daughters of the landed gentry such as Monica expected to marry suitably and well. The Great War put an end to all that. For the young women who came of age after the war in the 1920’s, there were virtually no suitable young men left to marry - well or otherwise.
Monica’s father was a widower. The family home was Syston Court, an estate in the West Country near Bath. As the only unmarried daughter, it was Monica’s responsibility to preside over the teapot, a privilege reserved for the senior lady of the house. There was always a risk that a female guest, possibly with an eye to the widower, might usurp Monica’s position. Which meant that her two younger brothers would scrample noisily upstairs when visitors arrived, shouting 'Quick, quick - or so-and-so will pour!'
The tea-set itself - Spode, Minton, Wedgewood, Worcester - was chosen with a careful eye to the importance of the visitors. Tea was taken in the drawing-room, never in the dining-room, still less in the kitchen. And in high summer, provided the weather didn’t do what English weather usually does, could be taken on the terrace. China and Indian tea were both on offer. China (Lapsang) came with a slice of lemon, Indian (Assam) with milk. Milk was poured in last, lump-sugar was offered with with tongs.
A three-tiered cake-stand took pride of place. The lowest layer held thin-cut bread and butter, white and brown, with crumpets or muffins an option in winter. The middle layer held sandwiches, crustless triangles filled with finely-sliced tomato or cucumber (from the greenhouse), or home-cured ham (every estate had stye-pigs) potted up with butter, or a knife-tip of anchovy-flavoured Gentleman's Relish (from Fortnum’s). The top tier held cake - what else? On ordinary days, cherry-cake or seed-cake or Victoria sponge (two rounds sandwiched together with strawberry jam, no cream). But on days when guests were expected, a choice of two or even three cakes were provided, one of them iced, of which the most eagerly hoped-for was chocolate. Tea-time at Syston, said Monica, was the best and happiest meal of her life.
p.s. Artist and goose-breeder Monica Rawlin’s personal papers are housed in the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth.
p.p.s. You’ll find more stories and recipes in A Cook’s Year in a Welsh Farmhouse. Meanwhile, beloved paid subscribers will shortly be provided with recipes for potted ham, cucumber sandwiches and seed-cake.
We tend to watch a lot of British shows on TV. My wife and I used to look at each other when tea is offered by a host. Sometimes, the offer comes when the guest is going through a troubling moment and has come over to share the weight. Our little joke was, well, do they really think tea is going to solve the problem! Well, after watching long enough, and reading a piece such as this, we have come to understand that something really important is going on when the kettle is put on and tea is poured. It is an atavistic ritual, much like cave dwellers who shared a campfire with fellow travelers or guests. It is hearth and home. It is love and friendship. Yes, those things do solve problems. I enjoyed reading this.
I adore this tea story! And I never need a reason for cake…