Almost exactly a year ago I described my adventures into chutney making. Well, it’s that time of year again, only this time I thought I’d be more prepared. No cop outs this year with strange gourds that look like engorged genitalia.
The apple tree is shedding another mammoth harvest of cooking apples.
I’m in the market for marrows.
The jam kettle is locked and loaded.
I have consulted the recipe. I have clocked the correct amount of tickling pickling spice, ginger, ground carpet tacks and vinegar.
Mötörhead (my chutney-making accompaniment of choice) is cued up on the iPod.
The sauces tzores sources of shallots are squared. The middle class is quite prepared. But – oh woe! – when I looked in the shed for my secret stash of jars – they had gone, like the collapsing stack of genitive constructions that is Old Mother Hubbard’s Dog’s Bone.
That’s when I put in my order with Lakeland, the only choice for the organized homemaker housewife (my mother wasn’t the local WI President for nothing, and yes, I picked up more than how to accompany a lot of old ladies by playing Jerusalem on the village-hall piano, and no, since you ask, they all had their clothes on, as far as I remember).
I ordered a dozen one-pound bombs jars, with all the trimmings.
Chutney Apocalypse will have to happen next week, after the Canaries have slaughtered played Hull City at Carrow Road. It’s no accident that marrows are yellow and green. On The Ball, Chutney!