I have failed to mention the excuse for not writing as the fall into a stranger, alternative life style. And, indeed, while the tramps have shifted to what tramps 1, 2, 3, and 4 do consider a somewhat crazy way of living, it cannot be said to have prevented the putting of fingers to keyboard, but it has resulted in change, and a failure to reduce the stock of tinned sardines in the WLW’s pantry (if only tramps 1, 2, 3, and 4 had visited this year that problem might have disappeared). Like the former President, who lost a truly amazing amount of weight for his daughter’s wedding (even more than she had demanded), the trampess read the China Study (but, trend setter that she is, even at a remote distance from anywhere where trends are being set, a year before the President – or at least before he took action). Half way through the book, she looked at the tramp and suggested that they might have to become vegan. Now, it should be said that the tramp in recent years has not been a big meat eater, much prefers fish, is allergic to cheese, and on the whole (despite being of large and tall frame) thinks most people eat too much, including himself (though again, it must be said that he is not overweight) and therefore is always imploring the trampess to serve less meat and altogether less food. Notwithstanding, he let out a small gasp followed by a rather louder “What? You’re not serious???” The trampess declared she was, and like most discussions of this nature, it was agreed that she would send a summary (it is surely a comment on modern living that two people sitting less than a foot away from each other – in fact our feet often collide under the dinner table – send emails to each other with long attachments ) of the book that was causing her to reassess rather basic life style issues that would inevitably affect us both. The summary took some time, not the least because I was only half way through the book when I suggested a change might be in the offing. The tramp was not holding his breath for the summary, but when it came he did exhale deeply, looked up and said the change should occur immediately. He then set out to re-write the summary (it should be obvious by now that the tramp has a very logical and structured mind and finds many books not written in the best way to deliver maximum clarity and impact) of a better book with the same content. It is that summary, reviewed and re-written, again and again, that was sent to tramps 1, 2, 3, and 4, as a reason for the tramps new approach to food.
While the tramp has never been overly interested in food (unlike the trampess who grew up in a family who did) and the trampess would often eat her most extravagant meals with girl friends (destroying any stereotypes waiters had of skinny women pushing salad leaves around plates) or even on her own (the few times the trampess had to go to Paris on business, and not very pleasant business at that, she consoled herself with lunch, on her own but with a good book, at Arpege where on one occasion she had the menu de degustation and on the second – having so impressed the maitre d’ with her enthusiasm and capacity the previous week – the carte blanche – not on the menu but giving the chef carte blanche to produce the meal. I seem to recall that it came to 12 or 13 courses and remarkably, since the chef had gone vegetarian (turbot was allowed) – highly unusual for a restaurant of such calibre – everyone thought he was crazy – was very light). So it somewhat surprised the trampess, when the tramp said, “but this cannot be hairshirt vegan – I mean the food still has to be good.” Continuing in this vain (obviously somewhat worried) he suggested that many great cuisines of the world did not depend on meat: Indian, Chinese, Lebanese and Italian all offered a large variety of meat free dishes and would the trampess please get to work on become a master in each of these. He did admit that the tramps already ate a diet which was heavily Italian influenced, but it would be good, wouldn’t it to add the others?
Not long after, the trampess was observed, by an Indian friend (and a renowned cook), at a Thanksgiving lunch, not to be eating turkey. When the reason was explained, she suggested that the trampess should come to her for a day and learn the techniques of the oldest vegan cuisine in the world. Was this a gift from the gods? A clear indication that the decision was inspired? You make your own judgement, dear reader, but it was clear to the trampess this was an opportunity not to be foregone. And so the trampess put herself on a train to the distant reaches of the home counties and set out to learn the secrets of Indian cuisine from one who had to learn it from her cook (transplanted Indians sometimes discover that things they took for granted – in this case endless perfect meals – have to be learned once they are removed from the support staff of the subcontinent). She refused to let the trampess take notes during the cooking asserting with imperial majesty that her book was extremely clearly and thoroughly written, I would be given a copy, and I was just to watch (and occasionally stir or flip). After the cooking was done (over much chatting and comparing of techniques) the meal was eaten – sublime. Clearly, there is no sacrifice in eating a meatless, fishless, dairyless diet, if one can eat like this. And so the tramps now do. Which leads us to the crustless blueberry pie.
While at the Verbier Festival this year – scene of much happy hiking with tramps 1. 2, and 3 with GF’s the previous year – the hiking was much reduced due to the compelling master classes (voice, acting, piano and chamber music). After the festival, the tramp decided that vertical assaults were much needed and should be taken very seriously if the rather delicious post concert dinners were not to turn the tramps into unfit specimens. The trampess, still holding her edge on the speed to summit, often took different, more demanding, routes in order to slow her down. These often proved to be challenging (when the path stopped) or difficult (very steep or with large trees fallen across the path, often both) but as the trampess’s path would intersect occasionally with the tramp’s they could keep track of each other’s position and have a fair idea of when they might meet at the upper lift station for the trip down (keeping solidly to the view that hiking up is good for the heart and hiking down is bad for the knees – the opposite approach to that taken by most people their age). Often, there were amusing encounters or surprises: three blondes passing each other on a non trail each hoping to get to one they knew – addressing each other in perfect French (as by now you would expect) until one of us let out a word in English and we discovered to our amusement that 2 were native English speakers and the 3rd (with a name like Asrid you might guess) was Swedish. We laughed and switched languages, wished each other well and continued our search. And another time, sure that I was miles ahead, I received a text (this makes hiking on different paths so much less anxiety making) saying the tramp had reached chez Dany and would wait on a bench overlooking the valley). How mortifying! The next sign said 20 minutes to the restaurant but happily your trampess made it in 10. It must have been the sight of all the blueberries which had waylaid her.
Ah the blueberries. One of the trampess’s fondest culinary memories was of the blueberry pie made by a Swiss friend of the trampess’s parents. A most outstanding cook (imagine, unsurrendered feminists, a woman who made fresh croissants for her husband every morning????!!! Indeed, she made them for the tramp and the trampess their first morning at the parent’s house after their wedding – obviously setting me an example I was not quite destined to follow to the letter, but one which made an impression nonetheless – would he ever, I mean ever, even thought of divorce? Clearly not.) who would leave me divine dinners whenever I went to babysit her daughter. (I never said no to their requests for babysitting). On one of these occasions, she mentioned a blueberry pie in the oven and very sweetly said, if I didn’t mind, please be sure to leave some for her husband (now, dear reader, it is true, as you might have already surmised by the recently recounted lunches in France, that as a teenager I was capable of eating quite a lot, but having been raised by a mother who believed overeating was not a good thing and thus severely controlled portions, I had a remarkably un-Catholic ability to show restraint, well, at least some of the time). A very large portion of the pie was left and I was asked back again. So, in Verbier, after tasting one berry, just to make sure it was a wild blueberry (obviously significantly smaller than its cultivated counterpart), I thought that on the next hike a container might be a good thing. After all blueberries on the morning porridge would be quite tasty. And I did recall a rather tasty blueberry pie that tramp 1 and I made in Maine one summer when a brave girl friend and I (11 children between us – not all of them our own) decided to entertain the troops one afternoon by taking them blueberry picking (on a farm). Such was the enthusiasm of little fingers that that night in the face of a bucket of blueberries, I looked at tramp 1 and suggested the best way to get rid of a good proportion was to make a pie. He was on kitchen duty with me and agreed that the benefit of a pie was far greater than the work involved.
As it happened, after supper the night I discovered the Verbier berries, while sending out emails, I had occasion to thank a friend for giving me a lift back to the WLW after a late supper following the previous evening’s concert. I mentioned my hike and the wild blueberries and how I planned to take a container the next day and use the time difference between my walk and the tramp’s to good advantage. An idea which the tramp, it will not surprise you to learn, heartily endorsed. A reply came screeching back begging me not to eat the blueberries (as I have eaten wild, golden raspberries in Nepal and any number of wild blackberries in Wiltshire, I was really a bit startled by this virtual command). He went on to explain that the foxes (I must confess I had no idea I was trespassing on fox territory) in Verbier were know to carry a terrible virus which could be transmitted to humans via their urine (oh happy thought!) and since blueberries are low hanging fruit (so to speak, I can assure you that they take a very long time to pick, more about which later), no one, but no one in Verbier any longer eats wild blueberries, which I suppose goes some way to explaining their abundance. He then went on to say, as if this were the wildest thought imaginable, that the virus was destroyed in cooking (but not by washing). I relayed this to the tramp, who said he didn’t see a problem, surely I could think of some way to cook blueberries – a pie perchance?
I will not mention that, with backpack and Nordic sticks, picking anything close to the ground is a precarious venture (unless, of course, one removes them – but with various patches of blueberries some distance apart on a continuous upward path, taking off and putting on all the gear seemed rather tiresome so your trampess chose to cope with added weight and the possibility of being thrown off balance). Nor will I mention that the blueberries were in a particularly steep patch. Nor do you really need to know that picking blueberries is a one at a time operation, and remember these are much smaller (think fraises du bois). What is worth thinking about is just how much fruit cooks down in a pie and therefore the pre-cooked volume that is necessary to achieve the final volume. After over a half hour of picking (and the realisation that if I dropped the container at any time before the lid was firmly on, suicide was probably the only honourable option) I realised I still had a long way to go to have enough for the innards of a pie. It was probably at that point that I thought a pie would not be vegan (after all I only use real butter in my pie crusts – anything else is – well just not up to standard, we won’t even talk about transfats in non butter substitutes), so perhaps a compote would do. After another half hour, I decided a compote would definitely do. I sped up the mountain texting the tramp that I would be there shortly and he could grab a table at Ruinettes (lunch out was to be my reward). When I arrived, the tramp smiled, said I had made it in time to catch the last lift down, and after all I was a much better cook than . . . It’s hard to turn a man down in the face of such flattery, so the blueberries (safely in their container) and I joined the tramp on the lift back to town from where we hiked back to the WLW and the trampess once more found herself in the kitchen. That evening it was proved that a blueberry pie without the crust is almost as good.
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