Dr Karen McAulay explores the history of Scottish music collecting, publishing and national identity from the 18th to 20th centuries. Research Fellow at Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, author of two Routledge monographs.
In the late 1920s, Thomas Nelson’s were just starting to work with the music specialist who would turn out to be very helpful to them over the next couple of decades. As I mentioned, I’ve been trying to find the very first letter that passed between them. Moreover, the Nelson’s editor had told his line-manager at the outset (in the mid-1920s) that he hoped this individual would be helping with ‘the large music book’. Now, this is delightfully vague, isn’t it? Nelson’s wouldn’t be publishing anything that I’d call ‘large’ in the way of printed music for several years.
And Another Music Man!
On Friday, I stumbled across editorial correspondence from 1929 about revising an earlierbook about music – one useful to individual students, possibly beyond school age – but not a school classroom text-book. When I get my hands on it, I expect to find that it’s a fairly standard Nelson printed book size. If this was ‘the large book’ (Possibility A), then it was only ‘large’ by comparison with slimmer materials intended for the classroom. Moreover, our music man was NOT the person who ended up revising it. His first contribution was something slimmer, and more classroom-based. But this book does perhaps better fit the timescale of a publication being projected in the late 20s.
It’s so easy to imagine up a sequence of events, with what is really insufficient evidence. After all, there could be another projected ‘large book’ (Possibility B) that never actually happened!
My working theory for Possibility A, is currently that even if they approached the first guy to revise a book, then for whatever reason, he wasn’t ultimately offered or didn’t fancy the commission. The chap who did do it was certainly a good choice, in any event – a knowledgeable scholar rather than a gifted practitioner and pedagogue.
There’s nothing for it – I must continue leafing through early correspondence in search of that initial letter! But I’ve also ordered a copy of the book that the scholar revised. After all, it’s another Nelson music publication. I need to know about it, too, whether it’s the ‘large’ book or otherwise.
Yesterday was my first day back in the archives. My phone was crawling with messages (an ongoing family situation). Then came a phone-call, which I couldn’t answer without running out to where I could talk. That led to another, and another. And another. Back and forth I went. I can’t tell you what a day it was!
However, I did get through several folders of Thomas Nelson papers. I’m in search of the first mention of a particular individual who was very influential in Nelson’s educational music output. I found him mentioned a couple of times in yesterday’s papers, once quite unexpectedly. I need to see how this sits in my timeline. Honestly, I didn’t expect to find him urging an organist’s wife to submit a book proposal on … elocution! It didn’t look like choral speaking (yes, that was a thing, which was quite in vogue a little later on). Indeed, a Nelson editor specifically advised his boss that it was about elocution, so I don’t need to wonder.
Nelson’s rejected the lady’s proposal. She found another publisher. I briefly wondered how the Englishman who basically ended up acting as music advisor to the Nelson editors, came to know a Scottish organist and his wife, quite early on in his professional career? But I think they probably met at a course or conference.
This is an interruption into the ongoing intermission!
I really needed this holiday. I was tired. An ongoing family crisis meant I couldn’t go away, but we’ve been for coffees and afternoon teas. I sewed and knitted. I’ve weeded books, tidied the garden, and we’ve had the bathroom gutted and totally refitted. (This is not the epitome of restfulness, especially when the loo’s decommissioned!, but the end result is gorgeous. )
Traumatised
But please, never ever ask me about multi-vehicle car insurance. I do not wish to relive those hours wasted entertaining the thought. It was a terrible idea. Ironically, I don’t even want to share my experience of finding that my data had been shared without consent, or that a non-existent traffic conviction had also been attributed to me. (The ‘incident’ was my being stopped after the midnight Christmas service. Doing 30 mph, stone-cold sober, in a fully compliant vehicle, it was a routine check, that’s all. No breach of the law, no points on licence.)
A couple of email exchanges during my vacation have reminded me how far I’ve moved from librarianship to research in just one year, and I’m looking forward to carrying on in this direction now. Anyway, I’m back to research mode on Monday. The coming week might be as close to normal routine as I could hope for, in the circumstances. Here’s hoping!
Rest assured, I shall return to my normal scholarly tone in August. But for now – I’m on holiday, and this has been quite a month in more ways than I can explain. So, humour me. I’m distracting myself!
Today, a friend’s Facebook posting alerted me to the fact that sentimental stories on Facebook are often concocted by AI and have no truth in them at all.
Now, I may already have mentioned that I loathe, with a fierce and burning passion, the horrible meme of mean and entitled ‘Karens’ – inevitably white women, of a certain age. Similarly, I hate all the vile YouTube videos about a nasty ‘Karen’, usually a white American living in an HOA (Home Owner Association). I’ve heard from various sources that they, too, are made up by AI, or acted using an AI script. When I overhear an endless series of videos narrated in the same voice, same tone, same cadences – with ‘Karen sneered’, ‘Karen snapped’, ‘Karen glared’, I feel an almost visceral response. How DARE they turn my name into a mean, misogynistic slur? I don’t find them interesting or amusing – they’re pathetic and offensive. I hate my name!
But if I complain – then I’m an entitled middle-class white woman called Karen just proving their point for them by complaining. As ‘Karens’ do. (Or am I? My understanding is that the meme originated with people of the global majority who quite rightly objected to condescending treatment by a certain type of white person. I have seriously taken steps to educate myself about racism, and I don’t believe I am racist. Nor do I think I’m ‘entitled’. If anything, I apologise too often for being in the way, or daring to ask for something. This Karen is not a ‘Karen’.)
However, to test the theory that these things are written by AI, I decided to ask Chat GPT to write me a story, to see what the result would look like. How easily can one prompt a very predictable story to fit a predetermined template? And how would I rate the ‘writing’? (This is a one-off, I hasten to add, because I realise I’m wasting resources, especially water, by playing around with a robot. Moreover, the results are frankly boring! I won’t do it again.) My AI story is about a bigoted man called Bert. Here goes:-
“Could you please write me a realistic story about an American called Bert who lived in a housing complex and was mean and intolerant to anyone who looked different. The story must end with Bert learning his lesson the hard way.”
And Chat GPT replied, Certainly — here’s a realistic short story about Bert, with a strong narrative arc and a moral conclusion. (Chat GPT didn’t warn me how dull it would be!):-
Title: “The View from Apartment 3B”
Bert lived in Apartment 3B of the Chestnut Grove housing complex on the east side of Cleveland. He was 67, retired from thirty years at the steel plant, and proud of never needing help from anyone — especially not the government, not the church, and certainly not “those people.”
To Bert, “those people” included anyone who didn’t look, speak, dress, or worship like he did. He hated loud music in foreign languages. He hated headscarves and saggy pants, long beards and bright turbans, rainbow flags and prayer rugs. He especially hated when people didn’t speak English around him. He never said “hate” out loud, of course — he just called himself “old-fashioned.”
He’d sit on the bench outside the complex with his scuffed thermos of black coffee, offering grunted nods to the other older white tenants who tolerated his gruffness. But if anyone else came by — the young Nigerian nurse from 2A, the Filipino single dad from 4C, the Mexican-American delivery driver from the next building — Bert’s face hardened like a storm cloud.
He muttered under his breath, sometimes louder than he thought.
One evening, someone spray-painted “Go home” on the wall near the mailboxes. It wasn’t signed, but everyone suspected who might’ve said something to encourage it. Bert just shrugged. “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “maybe they should.”
Then winter came.
In early January, Cleveland got hit with one of the worst ice storms in a decade. Power lines went down, roads froze over, and the Chestnut Grove complex lost heat and electricity for four days. The management company was slow to respond — they’d been cutting corners for years.
Bert, stubborn and reclusive, didn’t reach out for help. His old space heater didn’t work without power, and he refused to go to the warming shelter set up at the local community center. “Not gonna be packed in like sardines with a bunch of strangers,” he grumbled.
By day two, the temperature inside his apartment had dropped to the low 40s. Bert bundled up in layers of flannel and tried to wait it out, but his breathing became shallow, his chest tight. On the third night, he passed out on his kitchen floor, alone.
He came to in a different kitchen — warm, full of the smell of ginger tea and something simmering on the stove. A woman with dark brown skin and a soft voice was leaning over him, holding a warm compress to his forehead.
“Don’t try to sit up yet,” she said. “You fainted from the cold. My husband helped carry you over here.”
It was Amina from 2A — the nurse he always avoided in the hallway.
He blinked, confused. “Why…?”
“You live alone,” she said simply. “And we saw the light out in your window. We were worried.”
Beside her stood her husband, Yusuf, who offered him a bowl of soup. Bert’s hands trembled as he accepted it. In the corner, their children whispered, glancing at him with worried eyes.
He stayed the night in their warm apartment, too weak to argue.
When the power came back two days later, Bert returned to 3B. He barely spoke for a week. Then, one morning, he walked down to the common area and quietly scrubbed the wall where the hateful graffiti had been. No one asked him to. He didn’t say a word.
Later that month, he surprised everyone by showing up at the potluck in the rec room. He brought cornbread — a little dry, but appreciated — and sat with the Filipino dad from 4C. They talked about old cars. Bert even laughed once.
He never gave a grand apology. He never became warm and fuzzy. But he nodded more often. He started saying “hello” without suspicion. And one rainy evening, he left a small thank-you card outside 2A with a packet of tea tucked inside.
Bert didn’t change all at once. But he learned this much the hard way: It’s the people you push away who might just be the ones who save your life.
Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Chat GPT offered to make any changes I liked. So, let’s say that ‘Bert’ is now a New Englander called Joe, chairman of his local residents’ association, and the story takes place in a parking lot. (I don’t want to offend any Berts with a series of ‘Bert’ stories, so I’ve rung the changes.)
Chat GPT obliged. ‘Absolutely! Here’s a revised version of the story with your requested details’:
Title: “Lines in the Lot”
Joe Whitman was the chairman of the residents’ association at Maple Court Condominiums, a tidy, if slightly worn, complex in a leafy corner of suburban Massachusetts. A retired school administrator, Joe spoke in crisp, measured tones and had a fondness for pressed chinos, classic novels, and rules — especially those printed in the Residents’ Handbook.
He considered himself a man of principle. Decorum, order, and “shared standards” were his watchwords. In practice, this meant keeping the hedges trimmed, the recycling correctly sorted, and — most importantly — the parking lot free of chaos.
The parking lot was Joe’s domain.
He had lobbied for years to have the lines repainted and finally succeeded last spring. Now, every car was expected to park precisely within the marked bays. Double parking, backing in, or — heaven forbid — using visitor spaces without prior notice, were cardinal sins.
Joe’s frustration grew when residents who “didn’t understand the culture of the place” — his euphemism of choice — failed to follow the unspoken rules. A young Haitian couple had moved in recently. A Syrian family rented two units nearby. And there was the quiet Korean graduate student who sometimes worked late and came home after midnight, parking hastily across two lines.
Joe didn’t shout or sneer. He simply left laminated notices on windshields, written in the same font used by the association newsletter. “Please respect community standards. Repeat infractions will be reported.” He believed he was being fair.
One cold November afternoon, Joe spotted the Haitian couple — Daniel and Mireille — unloading bags of groceries. Their toddler was crying. The minivan’s front bumper was clearly over the line, intruding into the next bay.
Joe approached, arms crossed, ready to correct.
“Afternoon,” he said stiffly.
“Afternoon,” Daniel replied, adjusting his son’s hat.
“I see your vehicle is once again outside the boundary. The lines are there for a reason.”
Daniel looked at him for a long moment. “We’ll move it in just a moment. My wife needs to carry the baby upstairs.”
Joe gave a tight smile. “The rules apply to everyone, I’m afraid.”
That evening, Mireille posted in the community WhatsApp group — politely, but firmly — asking for a bit more compassion from the association when families had their hands full. Joe didn’t respond. He didn’t like being called out, especially not in public.
The storm hit two nights later.
Freezing rain coated the lot in slick black ice. Residents stayed indoors, waiting for the salt truck. But it never came.
Around 10:30 p.m., Joe went out to inspect the situation. It was his duty, he reasoned, to ensure no one parked irresponsibly overnight. He didn’t see the ice patch beside the Honda CR-V.
He slipped.
There was a sharp crack — his hip — and then nothing but pain and darkness.
He woke up to voices and headlights.
Daniel and the Korean student, Ji-Hoon, had found him. They’d been helping another neighbor move her car when they saw the shape on the ground.
They called an ambulance, covered him with their coats, and waited until help arrived. Daniel even rode along to the hospital.
Joe spent three nights recovering. The doctor said it could’ve been much worse — if he’d been alone for another hour, in that cold, things might’ve turned fatal.
Back at Maple Court, Joe took a long pause from association duties. He returned slowly — first attending meetings quietly, then helping organize a community clean-up day in spring.
He made no dramatic speeches. But a few changes spoke volumes.
The association adopted a “compassion clause” for parking enforcement. Laminated notices were quietly retired. Joe began greeting Daniel and Mireille with genuine warmth. He even asked Ji-Hoon about his dissertation over coffee one Saturday.
Joe never stopped valuing rules. But he learned that people mattered more — especially the ones you once only saw as problems.
Since I can’t bear my own name becoming a meme, we won’t let Bert or Joe become memes. But I couldn’t resist one more attempt! (To think I once published thirty-odd short stories and a serial in The People’s Friend, but now a robot can write sentimental stuff at the drop of a hat!) Could you tell the stories in this blog post were written by AI? They lack any sparkle that might make a reader want to rea it again!
I asked:- Could you please write me a very short sentimental story about a Devonian man called Derek, who had a much younger wife. A bit old fashioned in his ways, he would gently grumble (sorry, ‘comment’) about anything that displeased him, and his favourite insult was to tell poor Daisy that she was becoming more difficult with age. The story must end with Derek learning a salutory lesson.
Derek, a retired railway clerk from Devon, lived in a neatly kept cottage just outside Tavistock, with his much younger wife, Daisy. He was a man of habits — porridge at seven, gardening by nine, and a cup of milky tea at precisely four. Derek didn’t shout or rage; no, he commented. On the weather, on the state of the world, and most especially, on Daisy.
“Bit extravagant with the basil again, love,” he’d murmur as she cooked. “Back in my day, women didn’t wear jeans to the pub.” And, all too often: “You’re becoming more difficult with age, Daisy.”
Daisy, ever patient, would smile — though sometimes it flickered.
One Tuesday, Derek caught a chill. Nothing serious, but enough to keep him in bed for a few days. Daisy brought him soup, fluffed his pillows, and even read aloud from The Daily Telegraph, skipping the bits she knew would make him “comment.”
By Friday, Derek’s spirits lifted, but Daisy looked pale. “Just a bit tired,” she said, brushing it off. On Saturday, she fainted in the kitchen.
At the hospital, while waiting for news, Derek sat with hands trembling and heart thudding like an old train engine. A nurse appeared. “She’s all right,” she said gently. “Exhaustion. You’ll need to let her rest. And perhaps—help out a little more.”
Derek nodded mutely. That night, back in the quiet cottage, he made tea — weak, a bit tepid — and placed it by her bedside. Daisy opened her eyes, surprised.
“I made it myself,” he said. “Don’t say it’s awful. I’ve decided I’m the difficult one after all.”
She smiled, tired but amused. “Took you long enough, Derek.”
And for once, he didn’t comment. He just held her hand.
As I said, I won’t be doing this again. But I do now agree that a robot is perfectly capable of churning out sentimental, sarcastic or scurrilous material ad infinitum. They are boring stories. The second one has just the same ‘feel’ as the first – it doesn’t make you want to read on. The tone is so bland that, even in the days when doctors’ waiting rooms had magazines lying around, you’d have had to be pretty fed up to want to read to the end of these particular stories! However, it’s grammatical, and my results had acceptable language – no inappropriate academic turns of phrase.
But why would I bother? It’s not nearly as satisfying as writing about something more interesting oneself!
It is the week of the bathroom renovation. There’s a team doing it, and all I have to do is basically keep out of the way. (Said she, glumly contemplating the inconveniences of having no – erm – plumbing for hours at a time.) It’s going to be fabulous, but the upheaval is quite something else. This morning, we have a singing electrician and two joiners. I am much distracted by the banging and crashing upstairs and down, and a table has appeared in the garden!
An ‘Auld Hoose’
The electrician has just inspected the fusebox, and warned me that there might be some inappropriate language if certain switches and boxes don’t do what he needs them to do. Silence. He stops singing …
This ‘Hame o’ Mine’
I look for ways to divert myself. Yesterday, I did some ironing (that’s always a sign of stress. I ironed before I got married; I ironed when I was in labour; and I iron when someone has rattled me!) I also wrote a report, which felt strangely grounding – and reached out to another professional with whom I have a point of common interest. Maybe not exactly holiday activities, but definitely worthwhile.
Strangely enough, tidying seems quite therapeutic. If much of the house is in chaos inside and out, then imposing order on a tiny corner – David versus Goliath – feels like taking back just a bit of control. Last week I put unwanted books on eBay and visited the charity shop, but I can always find more. I could do some gardening, but everything’s very wet out there after overnight rain, Maybe later!
I could sort paperwork and filing, but creating more mess and covering more surfaces may not be a good idea. I may be reduced to commencing a [small] sewing project, or perhaps starting knitting! Or …
An Album of WELL-LOVED SONGS From the Repertoire of Robert Wilson, ‘THE VOICE OF SCOTLAND’
My eye falls on the Robert Wilson song-book that has lain on the piano for a couple of weeks. That needs putting away – but not before I reflect that the publication has its own points of interest. I like the fact that this book, published by Ascherberg, Hopwood & Crew, predates when Wilson and his cronies bought James S Kerr’s publishing concern and began publishing jaunty, variety-influenced (‘tartan-tinted’) light song repertoire that not only suited his own voice, but met with affectionate approval with his many, many followers. The English firm’s publication contains an older selection of Scottish songs, which clearly marks an earlier stage in Wilson’s career:- ‘My ain Wee House’ (Hoose, surely?! But it’s an English publisher); ‘Hame o’ mine’; ‘Bonnie wee thing’; ‘The auld House’ (ahem. Hoose, please); ‘O sing to me the auld Scotch sangs’; ‘Yon wee bit heather’; ‘The Scottish Emigrant’s Farewell’, and more. It couldn’t be more different from his later repertoire.
Ah, I’ve just heard a triumphant ‘YES!’ from the bathroom. And no swearing. I’ll take that as a sign that the fusebox and switches did what they were meant to do. (Thank God!)
No ‘Auld Scotch Sangs’, but any ‘Sangs’ will do!
The electrician has started singing again, so all must be well! A quick burst of the burglar alarm – that’ll annoy the neighbours! – then fuses are put back, the alarm is reset and peace descends … for now.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning would probably kill me for misappropriating her memorable poetical line! However, I’m only now realising the very many different ways in which one can achieve Fellowship.
A Disappointing Start
Many years ago, I tried to achieve a Fellowship of Trinity College London, in oboe performance. I’m afraid I didn’t succeed, remaining a Licentiate to this day – but I no longer call myself an oboist in any case; I haven’t played for years. To think that at one point, I couldn’t imagine myself not playing it!
An Early Dalliance
Professional
I was more successful in librarianship. I attained Fellowship of CILIP (the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals) in 2010, only relinquishing it (my decision) when I stopped being a librarian. I was also made a Fellow of IAML(UK & Irl) as I approached the end of my career in music librarianship. (My official role was Performing Arts Librarian, but I was, essentially, a music librarian.)
Research
A couple of years ago, I enjoyed a Ketelbey Fellowship semester in the School of History at the University of St Andrews, and I’m currently a Fellow at IASH, University of Edinburgh.
I’m continuing my research activities as a postdoctoral research fellow at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland – that’s my permanent part-time role. Would I cause confusion by mentioning that I was also awarded Fellowship of the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland in Autumn 2024?
And Today … FRHistS
I was delighted to learn that I’ve just been elected a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society. This is a worldwide organisation with a long and distinguished history, so Fellowship really is an honour. I’m one of 78 new Fellows this summer. Since I’ve taken the greatest interest and pleasure in historical research in the latter part of my career – as evidenced by my publications record – this news is a source of quiet satisfaction.
Folks, I’ve just noticed Routledge has a 20% summer sale on at the moment. So, if you or your library could use a copy, this might be a good time to get it! (All books and e-books are 20% off until 1 August 2025.)
The accent is on social history and Scotland – and music-making, obviously. I’m keen to hear what readers think of it. (If you are a reviews editor, do get in touch with Routledge. There’s a link on the website.)
Halfway through the second week of holiday, I’m getting into my stride.
Home Improvements
Business duck!
We sorely, desperately needed a new bathroom. We’ve had a consultation, and it all happens next week. (Crikey! It’s going to be an exciting week.)
The garden is now tidier. We also needed two garden walls painted. Done today – not by us, though. (And NOW I can put a few more plants in the border!)
Health, Hair, Hard Work and Handiwork
So bright & white!
Doctor, optician, hairdresser appointments made. I haven’t booked the dental checkup yet, but give me time.
Five bags of books weeded out of ONE room (the one where I work!), to be distributed to the charity shop, a secondhand bookshop, and a few to give away. I also spent several hours on eBay. The shelves are still full, but tidier, and there’s also no longer a heap in the corner of the lounge. I am gradually tidying odd corners that have been annoying me for ages; have found books that I’d forgotten I even had; and have conceded to myself that I never will read some of the books – that Norwegian darning book is way, way above my capabilities!
Last week I made ‘Himself’ a waistcoat. Yesterday I made myself a shirt – it had been cut out, but hadn’t been started in 1-2 years, so it’s nice that it’s now hanging up awaiting buttons and buttonholes. I do have other sewing projects lined up, but I thought I ought to get into the habit of finishing one thing before starting another. It’s an astonishingly quick pattern, which probably explains why I have a number of shirts in the same design!
Quick make!
Hardly Holiday?
You might ask where the rest and relaxation has gone. I can’t really answer that. However, I can assure you that I haven’t done any research this week!
But I have bought us tickets for a Tchaikovsky concert tomorrow evening. That counts as an outing purely for pleasure, and best of all, it’s not far from home.
There’s much to be said for getting on top of tasks that were long overdue. When I go to town tomorrow afternoon, I’ll hopefully be able to drop off the ‘gift’ books before I go to the hairdresser, and if I’m lucky, reward myself with a coffee afterwards. (If not – well, it’ll be a treat for Friday.)
Relax, dear reader – this is not an incursion into my working research existence. I haven’t broken my resolution to take a well-earned holiday. Well, not exactly!
Going through the Thomas Nelson correspondence a few weeks ago, I came across a post-war letter celebrating the fact that sugar rationing was finally over, in which one editor suggested to another that now would be a good time to reissue Helen Jerome’s sweet-making book.
Now for a bit of history! It had first been published in 1924. In 1931, the author proposed another book, this time about baking cakes. The publishers declined it, since they felt the sweet-making one hadn’t sold very well.
Notwithstanding these observations, they revised the sweet-making book in 1936, and reprinted it in June 1939 (still pre-war). This publisher very much had their finger on the pulse, and books for adults quite often tapped into contemporary issues. So, right now they guessed – probably accurately – that people would enjoy making confectionery again after the years of privation. I obtained a revised edition with a foreword dated Spring 1954:-
FOREWORD TO THE REVISED EDITION. The effect of sweet and sugar rationing appears only to have increased the amount of sweets eaten in Great Britain, establishing us as one of the largest sweet-eating countries in the world. There is now much added interest in the actual making of sweets at home – whether as a skilled hobby … a family venture for special occasions, or as an experiment embarked upon by teenagers …
I’ll be honest – I bought this book intending to make some confectionery which I could photograph and write about. Now I’m on holiday, I imagined myself lovingly creating something delicious to intrigue and delight the family. However, I’ve looked through at the required equipment, the fancy syrups, and high boiling temperatures, and I have taken fright. It’s not going to happen! The first three chapters are terrifying enough: Utensils Required for Sweet-making; Materials Required for Sweet-making and Hints on their Preparation; and Sugar Boiling, Sugar Syrups, Spun Sugar, and Crystallisation.
I have a stove. And a sugar thermometer (unused). I don’t have a slab, be it marble, slate or heavy wood (‘covered with a sheet of enamelled iron’) or a ‘heavy white enamelled tray known as a “butcher’s tray”‘. Nor do I have a nylon or hair sieve, candy bars (not the edible variety – these are ‘a set of four steel bars cut from 1/2 in. cube steel, and 12-18 in. long, which help to obtain and professional finish’ and ‘can be obtained from a builder’s merchant’.) I’m mystified by sweet rings or cream rings, a caramel marker, a sugar scraper, a candy hook or a starch tray … need I continue? There are three more pages of equipment requirements.
As you can see, getting set up could be quite expensive! Not only are some of the above items going to be hard to source, but I had a bit of a problem establishing what, precisely, a gill measurement is. My first Google search did not go well …
The AI answer wasn’t quite what I expected!
If at first you don’t succeed – try, try, try again:-
Ah, that’s more like it!
Anyway, let’s look at the ingredients:- Loaf sugar, granulated sugar, demerara sugar, castor sugar, icing sugar, Raw West Indian or ‘soft’ sugar. Treacle, honey, glucose, cream of tartar, butter … so far, so good. But don’t get complacent. After various nuts and dried fruit, we find we need plain cooking chocolate (yes) and covering chocolate (what?), cocoa butter, various flavourings, gum arabic, gelatine, confectioners’ starch. Maple sugar, maple syrup, molasses, marshmallow cream … and then we get on to various techniques that you use to transform these ingredients into other more complex substances.
After all this, there are ten chapters devoted to different kinds of sweets, followed by advice about packaging them.
Fondants
Marzipan (you make this from scratch – don’t imagine you can buy a packet from Sainsbury’s!)
Toffees
Caramels
Candies and Fudges
Nougats
Chocolates
Jelly Sweets and ‘Delights’
Unboiled Bon-Bons
Miscellaneous Recipes
Now I’m feeling hungry, and my mouth is watering, but I am not equipped to start my confectionery journey. Not only that, but my ceramic hob is my pride and joy (or a ridiculous obsession, to quote my nearest and dearest), and I live in fear of pots boiling over at the best of times. Can I risk spilling boiling syrup on it? I cannot.
I take my hat off to the author, with her First-Class Diplomas, London and Paris (Cordon Bleu), who was a former staff Teacher of Cookery at the Polytechnic, Regent Street, London W1. I envy the skilled hobbyists capable of mastering ‘difficult processes’ (see? she admits they’re hard!). And I’m in awe of ‘teenagers who want to make their own “tuck”‘. I can well imagine their collective excitement at being able to buy all these sweet ingredients to create the treats they had missed out on for so long, and I hope many tasty confections were made by the purchasers of this book.
Next time I’m passing a shop, I’ll get some Fry’s Turkish Delight, and be grateful that I can!
Karen McAulay, Musicologist 