By using the Web site, you confirm that you have read, understood, and agreed to be bound by the Terms and Conditions. Slight fading and very slight spotting at spine with a very slight split at hinge at foot of spine, otherwise very good. Far from settling down, she speeded up, refusing to marry or have children and indeed devoting herself entirely to her work of recording the past. A recent BBC Four documentary on Hartley's life and work presented by Lucy Worsley cast some light on the eccentric pleasures of Food in England, which has been in print continuously for 58 years. Hartley's love of the infinite variety of English cooking and her knowledge of British culture and history show why our food should never be considered dull or limited.

The book suggests a much more varied, rich, and bizarre English cuisine than the stereotype allows, listing native plants and garden plants that were once widely consumed but now are forgotten (e. The independent-minded quarterly magazine that combines good looks, good writing and a personal approach. Last but not least, for fellow diehard fans of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey and Maturin novels - the recipe for soup squares, surely Dr Maturin's portable soup! I'd always thought of Hartley's Food in England as a history book, yet on rereading this endearing work from 1954, I found that it isn't, quite.Elevenses, for example, were far better in the country than in towns: a "big slice of solid cake" as against some dull "tea and biscuits" in the city. Hartley records how apple tarts were made with wide lattices of pastry ("less likely to sink into the juicy pulp"), whereas treacle tarts were made in a gable pattern, like castle windows. It's also beautifully illustrated with funny little line drawings by Dorothy Hartley herself, and it's full of her personality and life history, from her school days in a convent to her time in Africa.

Thus, if currant and sage predominate, the tea will somewhat favour Ceylon; if the lemon balm predominates, it will be a more China cup; if the ‘woodruff’, it will have the smoky aroma of Darjeeling. Dorothy Hartley's mother was from Froncysylltau, near Llangollen in North Wales, where the family owned quarries and property. It shouldn't be read like a cookbook, a history book, or an ethnographic essay because it is none of these things, and all of these things at the same time.

She seems to have had a quixotic need for solitude and sometimes hung up on friends who telephoned, snapping "I can't talk to you now.