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front row who wanted to know why I had a burn mark on my forehead. I tried to convince
him that I'd been kidnapped and tortured with lighted cigarettes, reasoning that 'I got burned
making fruit sweets' might not find favour with a hostile, late-night audience.
By carefully wrapping each quince in newspaper they will keep from autumn until about
Easter, so you have a bit of time - but even so, quince with everything can drag a bit and
even if I do make 3 tonnes of chutney with them I've then got to try and get rid of it. The
French, apparently, aren't big on the stuff and when offered a jar at the dinner table most tend
to sniff it, make positive gestures as to its bouquet and then ask about the background of chut-
ney in general before replacing it on the table untouched. Also, current restrictions on how
much 'liquid' you are allowed on board a plane makes bringing jars of chutney into the UK a
risky business; I've been stopped once already at the airport and had a hard time convincing
security that it wasn't some kind of aromatic explosive, just a preserve and very nice with
cold meats. They confiscated the jar, probably because it was lunchtime, but clearly have me
marked down now as The Chutney Bomber.
What I may do at some point is hire a van and import hundreds of jars that way. Instead of
being one of those comedians who spends the last five minutes of their act trying to sell you
the CD or DVD of the set you've just seen, I'll set up a little stall covered in a gingham table-
cloth at the back of the club and flog chutney as people leave. I've become hooked on the
process of making chutney; it's become my escape. Obviously moving to France in the first
place was meant to be my escape and it still is, but what with Natalie and the boys and the
animal equivalent of 'Open Day at the Borstal' I've found an inner bubble. When the stresses
and strains of family life here increase and my world feels once again like it's teetering pre-
cariously on its axis, you can find me in the kitchen furiously peeling, cutting up and boiling
all the goodness out of fruit like a crazy person.
(For those readers who are interested to try their hand at the sacred art of converting quince
into something more obviously edible, I have given details of recipes for 'Turkish Delight'
and chutney at the back of the topic .)
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