The Taste of Home

Myfanwy Alexander

My late mother was, I regret to say, an inveterate smuggler: her natural free spirit bridled against the constrains of post-War austerity. Her sister lived in Friesland and despite the view from her kitchen window being ‘simply thronging’ with black and white cows, Aunt Margaret had no butter. The Netherlands’ government were determined to rebuild their country by exporting very ounce of butter they produced, leaving nothing but austerity margarine, and pretty grim it was. Imports were also outlawed leaving my aunt reminiscing her over childhood nursery teas, fingers scorched by holding the toasting fork too close and endless quantities of butter and honey. My mother measured our suitcases, less the thickness of grey Army blankets, bought and froze an unfeasibly large quantity of butter, packed it into our lined cases and we set off as foot passengers on the Hook of Holland ferry. This successful process gave my mother lasting confidence: ‘proper’ bacon for my brother in New England was taken in her stride.

I must say, as mother of a farmer in New Zealand, I do not approve of this cavalier attitude to biosecurity but there are times when I am travelling and I do long for the taste of home. It used to be the case that we Brits, particularly those of us who lived in the countryside, experienced new foods on our holidays and this was part of the joy of the thing. Despite knowing several people with peach trees in their orangeries when I was growing up, I encountered my first nectarine in a market in the Gironde and thus began an enduring love for what the braying Englishman standing beside me at the stall called ‘one of those bald peach thingys.’ 

But now when you can buy Galia melons in Londis, the quality balance has shifted. Every nation has its own tastes, breeding traditions and ways of cooking and, of course, these element fuse together to make a country’s cuisine. Slapping a bit of beef, lamb or pork on a barbeque isn’t part of their heritage and that’s why I miss Welsh meat so much when I am abroad. There is a delicacy in our lamb that doesn’t need twelve hours of cooking, and I look up at the dusty, poplar-punctuated hills above Sienna and think to myself: ‘You guys have nailed frescos, but we do fresh meat best.’ Hence my dependency on Maggie’s African Twist, who produce brilliant little tins, ideal for packing in the car on cross channel jaunts: my own favourite is the Spice Up Grilled Meat blend which combines fruity depth with warmth.

In the days when Orangina was only available abroad, it was a revelation: our pop at the time was orange only in terms of colour, not flavour. But my thirst-quencher of choice, not yet available in every Breton Carrefour, gets stashed in every available space: you can get quite a few under the passenger seat, to be decanted to the fridge on arrival. Heartsease Elderflower Pressé is aromatic, not too sweet and very thirst-quenching. Top tip: if the only mineral water available is too sulphuric for your taste, add a good slug of the pressé and it will not longer spark the ‘it tastes like you licked a volcano’ comments my children were won’t to make. (By the way, I was offered naturally pink elderflower cordial the other day, from an elder tree with pink flowers- who knew? Same taste but a delicate rosé colour.) 

And look, I know the Italians are the masters of gelato, French patisseries are to die for and the Portuguese have nailed the custard tart (cinnamon, not nutmeg, on them - now that’s what I call a cultural divide) but there is no sweet treat like bara brith, wherever you are. Sliced with one of those ‘baldy peaches’ from the local market, it’s the quickest pudding. Doesn’t melt, doesn’t flake, doesn’t dry out in the heat- a couple of loaves of the excellent Tan-y-Castell Bara Brith are high on my holiday packing list. After all, bara brith is the world’s greatest fruit loaf and, as my mother always said, truth does not depend on geography.