A Peek Into My Work Room

          I've been working on the third book in the Sterkarm series, after The Sterkarm Handshake and A Sterkarm Kiss. In fact, I've been working on it for the past three years, amongst other things.
          Most of that work has been done on my laptop, in the corner of my sofa - partly because that suited me and partly because what I call 'my office' upstairs was in such a mess I could hardly get in the door.
          Housework has never been a priority for me - and then when both my parents were ill a few years ago, a lot of other things fell by the wayside. And since they died, a lot of things haven't seemed worth bothering about. The 'office' became a place to stuff oddments into and close the door.
          But the work on Sterkarm 3 is becoming increasingly serious. I felt the need of somewhere I could go that was away from my usual sofa-corner, a new place that would send my brain the signal, 'Time to work.'
          Like many other writers, I've often found it productive to get out of the house altogether, and go and work in a library, pub or cafe. I spent a lot of time trying to think of somewhere. The library was out, because personally, I find the grim silence in libraries distracting! I prefer somewhere with a bit of talk and coming and going. But the trouble with pubs and cafes is that you have to keep buying food and drink as 'rent'. This is perfectly reasonable - if I was trying to make a living from running a cafe, I wouldn't want the place full of free-loading writers either. But reasonable as it is, I still can't afford it.
          So I decided to clear my office of junk, generally tidy up, and see if it could serve as my change of scene. For the past week it's been working well. And I thought I should commemorate the tidy office, because it probably won't stay that way for very long.

           It may not seem remarkable to you, but those friends and relatives who have been allowed into the place over the past few years will be staggering with shock at this photo. There are places where you can put things down!
          I was too ashamed to publish a 'before' shot, but just imagine the desk and chair piled with archaelogical layers of papers, cds, books... And the floor littered with the pages of books ripped apart to make e-books.
          I had a lot of photos, cards and such that I wanted to display: and decided to tack them to the back wall instead of having them cluttering shelves and falling off in drifts.

           That male nude in the centre is a birthday card sent to me by my Mom and Dad. Obviously, that's the only reason it's up there - for sentimental reasons. Alongside it is the crashing racing-car card sent to me by my brother when I was learning to drive: 'Mirror - signal - manouvre - Oh !&%?!!' It still makes me laugh.
           Here's my own ghost-drum on its shelf, with its antler hammer, so I can summon the spirits - or Blott - when I need them.

 

          Here's a corner of one bookshelf -

 

          But now I have to get back to work, so I will hand you over to Blott...

          Weather Report: Friday 18th. Here, on top of the Black Country Plateau, it has been snowing gently but persistently all day. Kerbs have vanished, steps have become slopes, and my car is one big white mound. Don't think I'll be seeing anyone this weekend. Plenty of time to work!

              

Climbing the Sterkarm Tower

Goodrich Castle - knocked about a bit by Cromwell

          Since my brother was on holiday, and at a loose end, we decided to take a day out together, and revisit one of the castles that we stormed on a regular basis as children, when our Dad did the driving.
          I was in the driving seat this time, and we went to Goodrich Castle, near Ross-on-Wye. It's an impressive castle, but smaller than we remembered it.
          Its defences are formidable, and yet it only had to be defended against the Welsh once. I imagine the Welsh took a long, thoughtful look at the cunningly arranged towers, the barbican, moat and all, and moved on to somewhere easier.
          But it was the keep that made the lasting impression on us, the oldest part of the castle, of grey stone, while the rest is of red sandstone. It was built in the mid to late 12th century, and was done on the cheap. Richard De Clare wasn't a favourite with Henry II, it seems, on account of his having sided with Stephen against Henry's Mum, so he was a bit short on funding.

The grey keep rising above the red towers

          When I first visited Goodrich, as a child, I'd never heard of a Pele tower. But this keep exactly matched the usual design of a Border Pele tower: three storeys, with the ground floor used for storage, and the two floors above used for living, with a watch-tower on the roof. A single stair in the thickness of the wall was the only way in and out.
          So then we climbed the keep, as you do. Well, it was there. And, good lord, I realised that when I'd imagined the Sterkarms climbing their tower stairs, I'd been thinking of bigger castles, and had given them far too much elbow room.
          But the Sterkarm tower would have been quite small and built on the cheap too, because the Sterkarms are only farmers, who have to scrabble about for enough money to build their towers, for protection.

The Gatehouse

          It shows something of how isolated and backward the debateable lands were, that Goodrich Keep was outmoded by 1300, and used only to host second-rate guests, but the Pele towers were still very similar so much later.
          I've climbed the stairs in plenty of other towers. I knew they were narrow and twisty. I knew that there wouldn't be room to pass another person on the stairs - well, that was partly the point.
          But those stairs at Goodrich! Even in daylight, a section was almost completely dark, and the steps were so narrow that they were more like ledges than steps - and worn ledges at that.
          They didn't just twist - they corkscrewed in a tight spiral. It was like turning yourself round on the spot, but climbing up at the same time. And you were touching the walls on either side all time.
          And steep! It was like climbing a corkscrewing ladder in the dark - but a corkscrewing ladder with a tight box built round it.
Thank goodness for the stout rope, with large knots, that had been fastened to the central pillar for you to hang on to.

          We got to the top, and enjoyed the views over the Wye Valley - but hanging over us was the knowledge that we had to go back down those steps sooner or later.
          We wondered how people felt about climbing them on some cold winter's night in 11-umpty-plonk, with nobutt a guttering candle. "I bet they had that rope on the stairs then," I said, "to help them get up."
          "They'd have done better," said the bro, "hanging the rope out the window and shinning up and down that way. In fact," he said, warming to his theme, "I can see why Rapunzel was such a popular girl. Abseiling up and down her plaits would have been a sight easier than climbing those stairs."
          We did get down - you'll be glad to know that I'm not writing this blog from the top of Goodrich keep. First we put all cameras, sunglasses and other hand-occupying things away in pockets and belt-pouches to have both hands free. We clutched that rope and, in the pitch-dark section, groped about with toes to make sure we found those stone ledges.
          "How easy it is to imagine..."  You're always hearing this in programmes about anything historical, and it always makes me want to throw things. No! It is not easy at all to imagine what life was like in the past, even when you try hard. We were startled by the claustrophobic narrowness, steepness and darkness of the stairs - but would someone in 1148 have been? Or would they have simply been awed that the keep had stairs at all? - And was built of stone and had three storeys? Or is that making them too unsophisticated?

          It's the same when looking at the castle from outside. Today, we look at impressive ruins, and they're romantic, picturesque, historic... But even if we could see the castle restored to exactly how it would have looked in, say, 1300, we would still be seeing it through modern eyes, within the framework of a modern, democratic, secular understanding.
          It's not easy at all to understand how a fisherman on the Wye, or a farmer in the fields around the castle, would have understood it. Would it have been the stronghold of his oppressors? The home of his employer? The impressive show-home of the local celebrity? The dwelling-place of the God-appointed ruler of that place?
          Maybe they saw the castle as a bit of all of the above. Or maybe it was just the everyday and largely ignored background to their lives, as most of the buildings we pass every day are to ours.
          But I'm hoping I get a chance to rewrite those Sterkarm staircases. 

          No Blott this week, I'm afraid. Illness and OU study have combined to keep Blott at home.

I Did It!

Friday 7th September 2012 

     I did it, I did it!
          Three years to the month since I started, I've finished Sterkarm 3 and sent it to my agent just one hour ago.
          Now what do I do?
          Whatever, it has to be do-able one-handed. The doc's anti-inflammatories have done wonders for all my other joints - I am bounding up stairs and hills with lightsome foot - but left the tendonitis in my right hand and arm untouched.  When I finished the Sterkarm book last night,  my right wrist was visibly swollen.
          Still, it's forced me to remember many tricks, such as:

Cntrl + C = Copy

Cntrl + V = Paste

Cntrl + X = Delete

Cntrl + S = Save

          A double click on a word selects it for copying or deletion.
          All these enabled me to do a lot left-handed - quite suitable for writing about the Sterkarms! - in one corner of the key-board.
          So I'm afraid that's all for this post - 
          But good wishes to all and any struggling with finishing a book! Be of good cheer! It does, eventually, end.

Sterkarm Report

      Well, I failed.  It's 7-30pm on Friday night, and I know now that I'm not going to have Sterkarm 3 with my agent by tomorrow, September 1st.
         I tried hard.  I finished the book.  I'm a lot further on than if I hadn't set the deadline - but I'm going to have to ask for an extension.  Wednesday 5th seems a reasonable goal.
          What I still have to do is a final read through, while removing all the headings which helped me find my way around in 138,000 words.  I'm about a quarter of the way through, on Chapter 10.
          What's held me up?  Well - violins, please - a flare-up of tendonitis has not helped.  I am pecking out this blog with my left hand.  My right arm in a sling because it's so uncomfortable and at least, in a sling, it aches a little less.  It hurts to pick up an envelope right-handed.
          This slowed me down - and I had to spend time at the doctor's, getting some anti-inflammatory tablets.

          Happier interruptions - I sold a book through my website's new book-store, and had to pack up the book and post it.  Thank you, kind person.  The book is on its way.
          Also my cousin phoned from Switzerland, to ask, could he book me to tell spooky stories in November, to the kids in his Swiss school - via webcam and Skype?  Now this is something I've been thinking about for a while, and Alan has given me a useful shove.  I shall resurrect my Skype account, get a webcam, and learn to use it.   And then I shall offer virtual school visits - and maybe one-to-one writing advice via webcam, instead of just e-mail.
         Get me - the virtual writer.

          And here, especially dedicated to all those of you out there wrestling with edits, is Blott.

By Bitter Sterkarm...

          This will be a short post, as I have taken an oath.  By Oak and Ash, and Bitter Thorn, I will finish Sterkarm 3 and have it ready to send to my agent - or will have sent it - by September 1st.
          I know I said it was almost finished, but...
          I had to round up those loose hounds... Well, it turned out, they weren't as hard to round up as I'd feared.  But while I was looking for them, I found a lengthy passage that needed rewriting.  I'd brought in two minor characters to do something that - I suddenly saw - would be much better done by one of the more important characters.  But that means rewriting that scene and surrounding scenes...
          And the ending.  Endings, of course, are a beach.  I am feeling my way through this scene by my fingertips.  There are several characters.  The revelations of the scene must be made bit by bit - but every character must behave in character, and speak like themselves - and it all means going back and forth, rewriting, scrapping, moving lines about...  It's slow and head-nipping.
          And so much of my time is being taken up by other things - e-publishing my back-list, blogging, tweeting...  I could see it all going on for months.
          But I'm a member of an on-line writers' group called Flatcap. We 'meet up' on line most days, to report to each other on what we've managed to get done, and encourage each other.

The Ghost Wife

          I was grumbling on Flatcap about how it was all taking such an age, when another Flatcapper, the witty Joan Lennon, told me to take, myself, the same advice I would give to a novice writer in the same situation.

          Why don't you, Joan sagely asked, set yourself a deadline?
          Well, this is just what Flatcap is for.  So I am taking Joan's advice and setting myself a deadline.  September 1st - no later!

The Wolf Sisters by Susan Price

    I am also coming round to the idea of A Sterkarm Embrace as the title - though I may have to write in an explanation of what a Sterkarm embrace is.
          I have two more e-books out - Wolf Sisters and The Ghost Wife.  Another is pending, but it will just have to pend until the Sterkarms are done.

            Nor have I forgotten the Green Man.  I have got as far as buying a mask for a former, and cutting the side off a large cardboard box to make a working surface.  I've covered the cardboard in clingfilm, so the papier-mache (when I get to that stage) won't stick to it.  When I have finished the Sterkarms - by September 1st! - I will allow myself, as a reward, to have a go at the Green Man.  My brother suggests using cardboard tubes, like toilet roll and kitchen roll innards, to help with the curl of leaves.
          But, on with the Sterkarms...
And Blott, of course... 

A Sterkarm Twenty Minutes

Ice on the inside of the windows

          About three decades ago, when I was already a published writer but still lived with my parents, I wrote on my typewriter wherever I could set it up and get a bit of peace.  That usually meant on the big table in the rarely used front room.

          We didn’t have central heating and, in winter, only ever heated the living-room (and there were no fireplaces upstairs.)  Most of the house was, in winter, literally freezing.  There would be ice on the inside of the windows.

         One cold Sunday, I wanted to write.  I forget what I was working on, but I was deeply into it.  I put on my coat, thick socks, and a woolly hat.  I would have added mittens, but it’s hard to type in them. The rest of my family were gathered in the living room, about to watch a Hammer Horror film on video (I forget which one.  Witchfinder General?  Countess Dracula?)  I said to them, “I may be some time,” and plunged into the arctic conditions of the rest of the house.

      As I wrote, my ears were nipped, my nose dripped, my toes went numb and my fingers stiff.  I kept thinking, ‘It’s too cold, I can’t stand this.  Just another paragraph and I’ll give up.’ After about twenty minutes, I reached what seemed a natural break, and I was so cold, I couldn’t stand it any more.  I charged back into the warmth of the next room, stripping off my cold weather gear as I went.  The film was just ending.

          But wait!  A different film was ending, not the one they’d been watching when I’d departed for the North Pole.

          “Did you switch the other one off?” I asked.

          They looked at me strangely.  “We watched it right through,” they said.

          “But this is another film.”

          “Yes,” they said, as if to an idiot.  “We watched this one too.”

          “But – “ I said.  But I’d only been writing for about twenty minutes.  It had been too cold to do more.

          “We’ve watched two films while you’ve been writing,” they said. “And paused them while we made tea and fetched snacks.”

          They’d fast-forwarded through the slow bits, surely?

          Not at all.  They’d watched two films from beginning to end, with breaks for tea and snacks.  My twenty minutes had been two hours.

      For the past three years I’ve been working on Sterkarm 3 (and that, folks, is why a writers’ work shouldn’t be available free-to-all on the internet, as some argue).  I’ve been working hard on it, constantly climbing a metaphorical tower (perhaps an ivory one) and scanning far horizons with my imagination’s spy-glass, trying to see where the plot-lines might converge to an ending.

      Last Friday, I thought I might be drawing it all to an end – the first time in three years it’s had what felt like a conclusive ‘right’ ending.  About 9pm I looked at what I had sketched out and thought: If I keep going, I could finish this in the next few hours.

I made a decision: I’m not going to bed until I finish this, however long it takes.

      Some head-down time after, about twenty minutes, I was wandering around a sheiling with the cattle, somewhere in the drizzly hills of the borderlands, when I glanced at my watch and saw that it was midnight.  Okay, on we go.

      I wrote and wrote.  It was concentrated work, but didn’t take very long.  About twenty minutes.  That’s what it felt like.  I reached The End.  Collapsed on sofa.  Cheered.  Looked at watch.  It was 3-50 a.m.

      I think ‘twenty minutes’ may be the writers’ equivalent of ‘a country mile’ which is defined as, ‘any distance that has to be walked.’

Deerhound striking noble pose against mountains

     Of course, Sterkarm 3 still isn’t finished.  That ending is knocked into a rough shape, but it has to be polished.  There are characters who haven’t had their say yet – and who won't rest until they do.
          And there are two large dogs running around loose, I’m not quite sure where.  I’ve got to track them down and drag them to where they’re supposed to be.  (I’m sure Madwippet would never forget her canine characters and leave them roaming loose to worry cattle.)

A collie about to round up a synopsis

          But I’m starting to feel confident that, towards the end of August, I shall have a version of Sterkarm 3 that I can send to my agent without feeling ashamed of it.  (I may even decide definitely on a title.)
          I have another synopsis to send her too, again involving dogs, though these are border collies rather than large deer-hounds.

          But I’d love to hear other’s experience of ‘the writers’ twenty minutes.’
_____________________________________________________

     Edinburgh E-Book Festival

          Just a reminder that the on-line Edinburgh E-Book Festival really starts today.  There's all sorts going on over there - reviews, interviews, poetry...

             And over at the Facebook page, the cool e-readers are gathering, in their sunglasses.  Yours is invited to join.

          Right: my Kool Kindle, in James Dean style red leather jacket and sunnies, kicks back with a glass of white...

          Over to Blott...

Defending The Villain

          I’ve been reading reviews of my book, The Sterkarm Handshake on Goodreads.  Most of them are good – four and five star.  People say how much they enjoyed the book, and I heartily thank people for taking the time and trouble to post a review – even though they may have done it for fellow readers rather than me.

          However, I was struck by how many of the reviews – even the positive ones – took issue with the character of my villain, the Company Executive Officer, James Windsor.

          He’s called a ‘one-dimensional character’ and ‘a pantomime villain’.  He even, commenters say, in shocked tones, makes fun of the heroine’s size.

          This puzzles me.  Early reviews of the book said much the same thing; and here are later readers saying it.  Could I have got it so wrong?

          I don't think I did.

          Now I’m fully aware that any writer arguing against adverse comments is going to look like an egoist who can’t take criticism.

          But I’m going to do it anyway.  I’ve been publishing since I was 16.  I’ve been taking criticism, constructive and destructive, on the chin for the whole of my adult life.

          I don’t quarrel with those who say that the book is too violent, or that the heroine is irritating, or even that it’s boring.  I’ve said the same things of books by other writers, even of books by writers whose other works I’ve loved, so I’m neither surprised nor dismayed that some people dislike some of my books.  I had my reasons for writing it the way I did; but other people would have made different choices, and dislike those I made. Fair enough.

         The comments on James Windsor puzzle me, though.  When I write, I obviously create scenes, plots and characters that seem, to me, convincing – since if they don’t convince me, it’s foolish to hope they’ll convince readers.  I characterised Windsor as I did because it’s my observation that there are people like him abroad in this unhappy world.  Not everyone, not even every CEO – but some.

          I’m quite glad to think that so many of my readers seem never to have met a James Windsor, but I’m puzzled too.  They’ve never met a bully?  Really?

          And yet bullying at work is commonplace.  (Nor is it new: I was talking about this with my aunt, and she told me that she left her first job, 64 years ago, because her boss bullied her so much.)

          James Windsor has financial power, and power over employees, and he enjoys using it.  He gets a kick when people have no choice but to obey him.  It makes him feel better about himself – why wouldn’t it?  It proves his success as much as his car, his home, his expensive suits.

          That he’s one-dimensional may be true to the extent that, in the books, we see him only with subordinates – or people he thinks should be his subordinates, such as the Sterkarms.  (But he has no hold over the Sterkarms, and they don’t give a spit for him.)

          I also think it’s fair to say that Windsor is good at his job, intelligent, witty and, quite often, right.  He makes the mistake made by many ‘civilised’ men before him, of underestimating the ‘uncivilised’, but he’s far from stupid.  He’s just not benevolent.  Take a look round the world and you’ll see plenty of intelligent but malevolent people.

          With his equals or superiors Windsor would be charming – well-mannered, witty, friendly, considerate.  With equals, he has a reputation to sustain, and from superiors he has something to gain.  I’m told that my great-grandfather was like this.  Among workmates and pub-friends, towards strangers and such superiors as policemen and bosses, he was ‘a great laugh’: generous, witty, charming.

          At home, he made no effort to charm. He terrorised his wife and children, kicking one of his sons senseless for defending a sister, and deafening a daughter by hitting her on the ear with a seven-pound lump hammer.  (He was a blacksmith, and ordered his daughter to hold a chisel while he hit it with said hammer.  She annoyed him by flinching, and he hit her with what he had to hand – the hammer.)  But that night, in the pub, he was ‘a great laugh’.  Does this seem OTT, too melodramatic? - But it's true, and very similar scenes are being enacted on the day you read this, somewhere near you.

          A friend in publishing once told me of a writer she was friendly with.  She’d known him for years and they’d always got on well when they met at launches and lunches.  Then, due to the last recession but one, my friend was given notice.  Shortly after, she met the writer again.  They hugged and kissed, and he asked for her news.

          She said she’d lost her job, and felt rather depressed, since she couldn’t imagine finding another, given her age and the state of the industry.

          The writer replied, “Oh, you’re no use to me any more, then, are you?” – turned his back and walked away, leaving her gobsmacked and speechless.

          Very James Windsor. He, the writer, and my great-grandfather were narcissists.  They aren't in short supply, and they aren't always serial-killers.  I think they're quite often in positions of authority, both because they want to be, and because their unswerving self-interest helps them to get there.

          As for Windsor’s insulting remarks to my hefty heroine – have my readers really not met people like this?  Really?

          While writing Handshake, I met a woman who worked for an executive, and asked her about her job and boss.  She told me, rolling her eyes, that he always addressed her as ‘Gorgeous,’ even calling her this in front of others.

Now, this would be patronising and offensive enough, but it went further.  My informant, though professionally impressive and very well groomed, was fully aware that not many would seriously call her ‘gorgeous’.  Hence the rolling eyes.  Every time he called her that, especially in front of others, it was a put-down.

          But how could she complain?  She had a well paid job which otherwise suited her well, which she might lose if she complained.  Even if you don’t mind losing your job, how can you complain that your boss calls you ‘gorgeous’?  But she and everyone who heard it knew that it was a sneer.

          Why did her boss sneer at her on a daily basis?  Because he could.  He enjoyed it.

          It was this meeting which nerved me to have Windsor speak to Andrea as he does.  At one point he gives her expensive chocolates saying, “I’m sure you’ll know what to do with them.”

          Andrea reflects that Windsor’s gifts are payment for the right to insult people.  This is the politics of gift-giving.  At its most benign, it’s an affirmation of friendship – at its less benign, it’s manipulative power-play.  It’s hard to quarrel with someone who gives you expensive gifts – and some use that to get away with bad behaviour.

          It’s these experiences, and my own, which lie behind James Windsor.  I don’t think, unfortunately, that he’s unrealistic or pantomimic at all.

          But I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.  I will take them on the chin.

A Sterkarm Pud

          If you're like me, you only eat the meal so you can get to the pud.

           Oh, stop pretending – you know very well that you’ve chosen your pudding before your starter – a simple task for me, as it’s just a matter of deciding what has the most chocolate in it.

          In The Sterkarm Handshake, the pudding is a great disappointment to Windsor, as it’s simply a repetititon of the creamy, buttery ‘grewts’ the meal began with, but served with honey and berries instead of raw meat.

          The Sterkarms could probably have honestly claimed to ‘not have a sweet tooth’ since they would rarely, if ever, have eaten anything sweeter than honey and fruit – and their fruit would have been closer to the wild varieties, seasonal, and much less sweet than the kinds we have today.

Honeycombe

          Honey was seasonal, and although stored for use throughout the year, was relatively scarce and valuable and wouldn’t have been used with the carelessness that we use sugar.  Poorer Sterkarms, unless they had the time and skill to keep bees, would have counted themselves lucky to taste it on ‘high days and holidays.’

         Sugar was available, but in the early 16^th Century was only just beginning to be produced in bulk, and it was still, like other spices, extremely expensive.  The soft sassenachs might have been going mad with it down in London until every tooth in their head was black, but I doubt if the fashion for it, or much of the stuff itself, was yet to be found on the Borders.

         So, for this Sterkarm dessert, you can either serve groats again, with honey, small wild strawberries, raspberries and bilberries – or may I suggest something a little different, that very ancient British pud, frumenty?

Doesn't that look tempting?

          I’ve no doubt the Sterkarms enjoyed frumenty on many another day.  Perhaps they thought it too good for Windsor.  (Isobel didn’t want to waste her spices on him.)

          You take 140g of cracked wheat, or bulgar wheat, or semolina.

          Half a litre of ale.

          Two eggs

          A couple of handfuls of raisins.

          Half a teaspoon, or a large pinch, of cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger.

          Three to four tablespoons of single cream.

          Honey or sugar, some water to top up and – if you’re feeling really extravagant – a pinch of saffron.

          Soak the wheat overnight in the ale.  Most of the liquid will be absorbed.

          Put the wheat in a pan over heat, and add a little more ale, or water.  Add the spices and boil until the wheat is soft.  The smell is pretty wonderful.

          Remove from the heat and allow to cool a little, then add the raisins and stir them in.

          Then add the cream and two beaten eggs.  Don’t add them while the mixture is too hot, or the eggs will cook like scrambled egg.

          Return to a low heat and cook.  Add sugar or honey to taste – and the saffron if  you’re using it.

Expensive foreign almonds! Not for the Sterkarms.

          You can add nuts, or berries when you serve it.

          This also used to be served with meat, such as venison or pork, as well as being a sweet dessert.

          For the Sterkarms, this would have been a real luxury, celebratory dish, something only for special occasions, such as Hogmanay, weddings, christenings and such.  Eggs, cream, fruit and honey were all seasonal - something we tend to forget - and therefore prized.  The spices and raisins would have been extremely expensive.  About the only thing that was common-place was the ale, which was drunk instead of water – and even though ale would have been brewed every week, and was served at every meal, it still represented hours of work.

          FREE BOOKS! - On the 23rd and 24th of this month, to mark Shakespeare's birthday, those crazy Authors Electric are giving away e-books for free.  For details of what books, and how to find them, go to http://authorselectric.blogspot.co.uk/ on the 23rd April.

A Sterkarm Dinner-Party: The Main

A soay sheep posing as a Sterkarm sheep      Now for the main course of the Sterkarm dinner party.      It’s a delicious meat pudding.  In The Sterkarm Handshake, Per Sterkarm went out especially to catch a deer for it, and the deer was hung for several days - but if you can’t put your hands on a deer, fallow or red, you can use a sheep, goat, or even a cow, though  obviously, the size of your pudding will vary, and the amount of other ingredients will have to be adjusted.        The recipe below assumes you are using a sheep.        Take the stomach, liver, heart and lungs.        You’ll also need three onions, 250 grams of beef lard, 150 grams of the inevitable oatmeal, salt, and about 150 mls of stock.         Also some of that expensive spice, pepper – the little dried berries of a vine, picked and dried half a world away.  Their price reflects the distance they’ve travelled.           Start preparing this dish at least a day before you need it because first you must clean the stomach well, emptying it of what the animal was last keeping in it, and washing it out.  Soak it overnight (in a wooden bowl or tub, probably).           In the morning, turn the stomach inside out, and boil it for one and a half hours in good stock.  (There would always be a stock-pot full of bones and bits boiling in the Sterkarm kitchen.)  Make sure that the weasand – that it, the windpipe – hangs over the edge of the pot, to allow drainage – though drainage of what I’d rather not ask, if you don’t mind.           While the belly-bag is boiling, slap the heart and lungs on a table-top or large chopping board, and mince them with a big knife.           Get hold of the liver and chop up half of it.  (The other half isn’t needed for the pudding, so Per Sterkarm probably had it as a treat, and a reward for catching the deer.)           Keep chopping! –chop  up the onions and the beef lard.           In a large crock or tub, mix together the chopped heart, lungs, liver, lard, onions and oatmeal.  Season well with salt.           Then the peppercorns need to be ground.  If you are the lady of the tower, Isobel, then obviously you can use your own pepper as you like.  If you’re a mere cook, you will need to ask for the peppercorns, as they are so valuable they will kept locked away.  Grind them in a pestle and mortar, and add to the mix.           Add sage, thyme and parsley, if liked.  They will have been grown by Isobel, or gathered wild, and may be either fresh or dried.           Take some of the water the belly was boiled in, and add enough to the mixture to make it a little watery.           Now take the belly-bag and put it in another bowl, to support it, with the opening at the top.  Fill it with the mixture of oatmeal and offal until it’s half-full.           Squeeze out the air, and sew it up with thread.           Put it back into the boiling stock, top up with water, and boil for three hours, without a lid.  Don’t let it boil dry, and  if the stomach starts blowing up, prick it with a needle.           When it’s done, bring to table and cut into steaming slices.  Serve with its own gravy and boiled neeps – that is, turnips.  Some turnip greens, would also be good, if  in season, as would carrots – which, in the Sterkarm’s time, the early 16th Century, would be purple, not orange.  (They would never have called their redheads ‘carrot-top.')           No potatoes. The plant hadn’t yet been introduced to Britain.           They would expect you to tuck in enthusiastically, and Isobel Sterkarm would be beside herself with disappointment and shame if you didn’t.  After all, she and her maids had worked long and hard in a stifling kitchen to offer you their very best.           The offal was far more nutritious, juicy and tasty than the tough, dry, lean muscle meat from their hardy little beasts – and they’d put expensive pepper in it, just for you!           Isobel would press second and third helpings on you, because it was a terrible slight to be called mean, or for anyone to say that they left your table hungry.  It would be a matter of pride, too, to show that they didn’t need to care about saving food. And, of course, the more you ate, the more Isobel could pride herself as a hostess.           However politely you refused, she would heap your plate anyway.  She wouldn’t be able to help herself.         Toorkild and Per Sterkarm would probably make sure the pudding was finished but if, somehow, there was any pudding left over, it would turn up at breakfast, fried.  And, because you were a guest, the envious Sterkarm men would be denied it, and it would land on your plate.  With a clonk.  Good appetite!