It
was a miserable morning, with a coruscating wind blowing straight
from the Arctic circle. The dog and I once again fetched up at
Athelstaneford, a tiny village which is supposed to be the birthplace
of the Scottish Saltire flag. I say supposed to be, but no-one was
considerate enough to leave any documentary evidence, it being 936 AD
or thereabouts.
The village is unusual in that it has a public
telephone box that doubles as a sort of informal library. Someone,
presumably with permission from Openreach or whatever BT calls its retail arm
these days, has decked it out with shelving, and you can borrow, or
leave, books as you see fit. As it so happens, I had a bodice-ripper
of my wife’s to donate, and I was on the look-out for a recipe
book. Since I took a greater interest in culinary matters, I have
built up a small collection from there, whilst donating for the
benefit of others such tomes as the Writers and Artists Yearbook
2005, Millers Antiques and Collectables 1999 and the
autobiography of Sir Alex Ferguson.
The telephone box is one of the
standard attractive cast-iron variety from the 1930s, not the vile
modern cubicles that double as urinals. It was formerly pillar-box
red, but is now a diseased shade of pink, so long is it since any
attention has been paid to it. The village was, as always, deserted.
I opened the kiosk door. Inside, the usual thrillers abounded, by the likes
of Ian Rankin, Maeve Binchy and Alistair McCall Smith, but I
wasn’t interested in those. Nor was I much bothered about Gardening
in Small Spaces or a treatise on how to draw political cartoons.
I found a Marks and Spencer's book on 101 interesting ways to cook
vegetables, but if you can’t roast them or boil them, I don’t
care what else you can do with them.
As I turned to leave, empty-handed, my eye
caught sight of a small, insignificant book lying on the concrete floor. I could only see
the paper front cover, as the remainder was hidden by the authorised
biography of some golfer whose name was unfamiliar to me. I picked up the small book. Its front cover was torn, and the back cover was missing
completely. It was a small recipe book and it looked ancient. Its
title was 250 Recipes by Elizabeth Craig
written, unsurprisingly, by
the lady herself. The cost of the little book was one shilling. An
addendum to the front cover read “for use with Borwick’s baking
powder.” Some of the
recipes were illustrated, with pretty, coloured drawings of cakes and
flans. Every recipe required the use of one or two teaspoonsful of
Borwick’s baking powder. The recipes ranged from Peter Pan pudding
to Watford nut cup cakes, possibly
the only good thing to come
out of Watford.
It
turns out that Ms Craig was a Scot born in 1883, who lived to be 97
years old. She wrote dozens of cookery books between 1920 and 1980.
This one dated from 1930. What is more amazing is that Borwick’s
baking powder is still being made. They’re no longer at 1 Bunhill
Row, London EC1 (those premises are now occupied by the aptly named
Slaughter and May, who deal with mergers and acquisitions), but have
relocated to Warrington, Cheshire.
It’s remarkable what a root
round an old telephone box can reveal!
