Oh no! is this another cooking blog?
I created the Jolly Bungalow to make better sense of a life turned upside down by stay-at-home orders and all the uncertainties of life in the Great Pandemic. When I was searching for analogies, I kept coming back to scenes from my grandparents’ lives, of daily life on the farm and in the stables. I also heard Mum’s wartime stories, of having to “paint it red and make it do.” I found my bungalow slipping back into their past. They made their grim times jolly because that was how they carried on through it. A line from City of Refuge by Starhawk flashes though my brain. “The only way out is through.”
My family got through it by working what they had, and following the necessary precautions for the good of all. They did not whine over the loss of their freedoms, and they carried their gas masks in jaunty leatherette boxes. I want a jaunty bag or box to carry my spare clean face mask.
The stories about the jolly times often involved food and the efforts to get it (rationing and the black market). I have my own challenges to get food. I am used to shopping in the semi-prepared foods section of the market. Broccoli is neatly cut into florets, and bread can be sliced for you if you want it that way. But, I no longer want to drive a half-hour to the big market, where there are people who may or may not be respectful of social distancing. Now, I shop at a local farm stand and a local food coop. Neither sell food; they sell raw ingredients. That means I have to cook.
I can’t get frozen broccoli from the coop, so I had to make that myself. That involved a kettle of boiling water (I know how to make that,) a bowl of ice water(I can do that, too,) and a knife to make the broccoli into my beloved florets. Gran use to do this. I can, too. I’m not whining, but am on unfamiliar ground.
Behold, my own frozen broccoli! It wasn’t so bad. The kitchen was warm and steamy, redolent with the scent of freshly blanched broccoli. I used the flour sack tea towels that had belonged to my mother. They were perfectly for draining and drying the broccoli after it was done with its ice water bath. I had a cup of tea in hand, and there was classical music on the wireless (erm, on public radio streaming over the Sonos). The rough wood table has a handwoven cloth on it. I had succeeded in putting the unknown into a known context. The jolly bungalow has a kitchen, and I can see Gran’s big Aga in its corner. The kettle is on, and there is always tea.
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Tales from the jolly bungalow 