“What are you up to this afternoon?” my flat mate Stu asked, wandering into the kitchen. It was a grey drizzly Sunday, ideal for a leisurely session in front of the stove, steaming up the kitchen and filling the air with fragrant smells, a perfect afternoon for chutney.
“Ah,” Stu exclaimed, “you must be an Adams if you’re making chutney!”
I paused, confused. “Oh yes, “ Stu went on, “the Adams’s are mad about the stuff. They have it with everything. Chutney and pickles, they love ‘em all.”
When I thought about it, I had noticed a prodigious amount chutney and pickles when I last visited my aunt and uncle in Wales. In fact it was there I’d tasted pickled walnuts—unknown to your average American palate—for the first time. My cousin had about half a bottle’s worth with his meal. It was all beginning to make sense.
Stu’s observation was confirmed when, not a day later, I received an email from my uncle Chris. It read as follows:
Rachie,
We were very pleased that you are becoming a chutney enthusiast.
The attached is the recipe for probably the best chutney you will ever taste. A. Mollie is Rosie's Aunty (not a real Aunt) Mollie. Aspinster, sadly no longer with us who captained the England Ladies cricket team for many years in the 1950s.
Love
Chris
A day later I received an email from my cousin (he of the half jar of pickled walnuts) complaining that, as he is currently exiled from his native England, he is forced to make his own chuntey. There is nothing of sufficient quality in the length and breadth of the United States. Even via mail order from Virginia. Now that is dedication.
So there I was thinking this was a popular British fixation only to discover that my own extended family is perhaps uniquely affected by chutney mania.
Auntie Mollie’s recipe came in the form of a scanned page of loopy writing describing instructions for an apple and tomato chutney. It looks intriguing and I intend to try it soon. Meanwhile, all I had at my disposal on that rain-washed Sunday were apples, onions, and an impatient urge—clearly genetic I must now conclude—to try my hand at the craft.
The process was wonderfully simple, involving nothing more than chopping the apples and onion, tossing them into a saucepan with all remaining ingredients, and cooking until thickened. And the result, while I’m sure falling short of A. Mollie’s chutney, was definitely satisfying: a pleasant balance of fruit, spice, acid, and sugar . . . perhaps ever-so-slightly too sweet.
Today my chutney and bread making came together at lunch. Simple, quick, and eminently satisfying: a thick wedge of sharp English cheddar and generous layer of chunky apple chutney crammed between two slices of nutty, wholegrain sourdough bread.
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