It wid seem I’m “ower late wi’ my barra” in yarnin aboot the cuisine o’ the Catbow, an’ wis beaten til’t by James Morrison, the “Ianstoon Loon,” noo of Mount Maunganui, New Zealand. His poem, ‘North East Fare’ appeared in the Winter 2002 newsletter of the Buckie District Fishing Heritage Museum. His listing of “Fowlers for Rollies, Safties and Scones, Coskies and Eccles Cakes,” wid fair mak’ yer moo watter.
Bit speaking o’ rollies gie’d me a thocht that gart me think o’ an anecdote I recently read in a tribute to the late George Bruce, given by Tom Fleming, at George’s funeral in St. Giles, in Edinburgh, on 29 July 2002 an’ published in the January 2003 newsletter of the Scottish Poetry Library. I’d like tae share it wi’ a’ the Heritage newsletter readers.
Perhaps readers will remember George Bruce, who was born in Fraserburgh and was a member of the Bruce family, who were the oldest herring curers in the North of Scotland. George is also remembered for producing, among other things, ‘Arts Review’ and ‘Scottish Life and Letters’ for the BBC in Scotland On one occasion, Tom and George were doing a ‘Country Town’ broadcast from Ballater. Morning rolls were on their breakfast table and George asked Tom if he’d like a pyonder. Now, even though Tom had North-East roots, he had never heard of a pyonder. So George explained. His young cousin had returned from Sunday School with the new word: ‘When the roll is called a pyonder, I’ll be there!’
Ane o’ my earliest Catbow memories is the firkin o’ saut heerin’ that sat oot in the gairden the hale winter. The Catbow wis close enough tae the school that I cwid ging hame for my denner, an’ I richt enjoyed a saut heerin’ wi’ a new tattie, biled in it’s skin. Granny wid steep the heerin’ in caul water an’ gie them twa three brees tae wash awa’ some o’ the brine. Bit fin we got tae the lowest levels o’ the firkin, nae maiter foo mony brees Granny gie’d the heerin’, a’ I cwid taste wis brine. I min’ sittin’ a ‘aifterneen in the class, thinking I’d swalla’t the hale Moray Firth.
“Please Miss, kin I go oot an’ get a drink o’ water fae the watter fountain? I hid tatties n’ heerin tae my denner an’ we’re doon near the bothim o’ the barrel!” “No, Margaret! You must finish your sums!” My teacher jist wisna acquant wi’ Catbow cuisine, or heerin’ oot o’ the barrel.
Oor Christmas denner wis anither example o’ Catbow cuisine. I min we eest tae get a hen fae a faimly ca’d Murphy, fa’ bade up the country. My Great Great Granny eest tae ging up the country, wi’ a creel on her back, sellin’ fish, an’ she got freenly wi’ the Murphys. I min’ they eest tae come doon tae see’s about the Christmas time, wi’ the hen. It wis deid, of coorse, bit still hid a’ it’s feathers, an’ Mam hid tae pluck and singe it. Syne it gied intil the broth pot wi carrots and neeps cut up sma, a blade o’ kale’, a hanfae o’ rice, an’ seasoned wi’ saut an’ spice. Spice wis fit Granda ca’d fite pepper. It trottled twa days an’ sic a fine smell gied a through the hoose.
On Christmas Day, we’d hae the hen broth, and the hen aifter for the main course. I min’ ae time gan’ back tae the school aifter the Christmas Holidays an’ the teacher telt us tae write a composition aboot fit we did at Christmas. Maist o’ the ither loonies an’ quinies wrote aboot Santa comin’ doon the lum and fit he pit in their stockins’. I wrote a culinary review a’ aboot the bonnie hen we hid aiten, an’ the plum duff we hid wi custard aifter. I wis expectin’ tae git a gold star in ma’ jotter, bit instead, the teacher hid crossed oot “hen” and hid written in the margin in big reed letters, `CHICKEN!'
“Bit, miss! It wisna a chicken at a’. It wis an aul’ hen that biled for twa days, or it wid hae been gey teuch. Bit I cwidna describe the aroma o’ the hen broth wee1 enough tae mak the teacher understan’ an’ I didna get a gold star for my Christmas story. Bit a’ that’s deen and dichtit noo.
Fooiver, Catbow cuisine cam’ full circle in Mairch. Fowlers cam’ tae me in the form o’ my aul classmate fae Buckie Primary an’ High School days, Douglas Fowler, fa’ wis visiting California wi’ his freen, Chrissy. Douglas an’ I hivna seen each ither for thirty-six eer. Richard an’ I spent a gran’ evening wi’ them in San Francisco afore they gied awa’ tae the Grand Canyon.
Bit Douglas, ye forgot my rollies!
Thanks are due to Robyn Marsack, Director of the Scottish Poetry Library, for permission to quote from Tom Fleming’s tribute to George Bruce.
Fleming, Tom (29 July, 2002) George Bruce: 1909 -2002. Scottish Poetry Library Newsletter 40, January 2003
Click to return to Margaret's page