Torshi Left

 
A dim portrait of a share house lurks in the shadowy corners of my twenty-something memories. It was a huge, rambling place, with an evil, Voodoo doll-wielding matriarch at the self-appointed helm. The doll was the real thing, gifted to her by someone who returned, in tact, from Haiti. It was a weird, iron-fisted rule. One evening, while working her night-shift, the three of us hatched our cowardly escape. M would go off on his own, delving further into Marrickville than I’d ever been; S and I found a funny, dog-legged house just around the corner, perfect for the two of us to share. The fall-out wasn’t pretty.

Skinny as a rake, M was politically aligned to the far, far left. He possessed a razor wit, sharpened by growing up on London Council Estates and coming of age in Thatcher’s Britain. I liked him enormously, but was afraid of that deep, dark sense of humour. M smoked beautifully hand-rolled joints. Constantly. He spent an entire weekend patiently sanding and staining a cheap Ikea desk of mine in the back yard so intently, that it and I will never be parted. The friendship grew exponentially when I began cooking for he and S. Impressed, M would pull strangers aside to explain to them that my food was superb. I found the praise embarrassing and thrilling by turns and set about teaching both he and S how to doctor a tin of chickpeas. Something, I think, from Moosewood. I was then, and remain still, very good with a can-opener, a tin of beans and precious little else.

At his funeral I sat desperately wishing I could think of something – anything – other than the gruesome mechanics of his suicide. I wish I’d held on to that glowing praise. I’ve only just remembered it now.

There were moments, thankfully, of levity despite the constant sense of foreboding; people whom I look back on with deep affection. S became a great and trusted friend, one I miss a little in my thirties. I hope he made it safely through his. Then there was J who shopped at the Newtown Co-op and made hilarious (truthful) jokes about her British Royal lineage. She arrived one Saturday afternoon with a huge jar of shocking pink-pickled turnips under her arm, made especially for all of us by her Lebanese mother. I’ve loved them ever since. 

Though J promised to show me how to make them, allegiances were formed and that, well, that was that. Luckily, I have Susan and Claudia Roden to guide me.

Torshi Left
Makes one massive jarful. Roden says ‘The pickle should be eaten within a month to 6 weeks of making. We eat it long before.’ Our family is slightly smaller, so next time, I’ll halve it but the jar itself is a work of art, catching and scattering crimson light across the sill. The beetroot is here for colour alone and the pickle deepens in hue as it matures.

3 medium-large white turnips (about 1 ¼ kilos/2 ½ lb)
2-3 small beetroot
3-6 cloves of garlic
A few celery leaves
6 tablespoons of sea salt
3 cups of boiling water
1 ¼ cups of white wine vinegar

Wash a very, very large jar and its lid in hot soapy water. Rinse. Scald by filling to their rims with boiling water. Rest in the sink for about 1 minute. Set a clean tea towel on the bench, drain, reserving the water (water-wastage breaks my heart) and upturn both jar and lid onto it. Leave to dry completely.

Peel the turnips and cut them into neat, chip-sized batons. Peel the beetroots and slice them similarly, but a fraction thinner. Peel the garlic, leaving each clove whole. Pack into the now dry jar, interleaving turnips pieces with beetroot, garlic and celery leaves.

Dissolve the salt in the boiling water. Mix in the vinegar and carefully pour the solution into the jar, filling to just below the rim – you may need to add more boiling water to fill and, conversely, you may not need quite this much liquid. I deliberately underestimate the quantity in case of either outcome. Lid tightly and place somewhere in the kitchen where you can appreciate that extraordinary, ever-deepening shade of pink. Leave for 10 days at room temperature. They should be used within 5 weeks of the pickling date – label accordingly.

Comments

[Arwen from Hoglet K]

That's very sad, but it's nice that you've got some good memories of him.

I've often wondered why pickled turnip was pink, so now I know. I've seen cabbage done like that too. It does look beautiful.

[Katrina]

I of course have no way of know but I imagine that M would appreciate all of this. The story, the pictures, your memories. It is all quite beautifully remembered. Honest. And pickled turnips, this is the first I've ever heard of such a thing and I doubt I'll ever forget them.

[Wendy]

Like Katrina said, I suspect (with no way of knowing) that M would have loved your memory of him. I know I did. So sad.

You should write a book about that house. I'm going to have nightmares about that voodoo doll wielding woman.

[janet]

Such a sad story. The image of your friend sanding and staining your desk is one I find very poignant.

I may just have to try some pickled turnips now.

[AOF]

Beautifully written :)

[Ricki]

What a beautiful, poignant tribute to your friend. I'd cherish that desk, too. And pickled turnips--a new one for me. They look lovely.

[Elaine]

Yes, a beautiful and poignant story of a special friendship. Food can evoke many bittersweet memories.

[Anh]

A bittersweet note, Lucy. I guess it is true that it takes the whole universe to understand a person's world (A Vietnamese saying). But the important thing is eventhough he's gone, it is his memory that stays in your heart.

I love the pickle. I ate similar one before. A way to convert any turnip hater!

[Johanna]

That first photo is just so lovely - a hint of the loveliness with a little bruising that follows in your story - have never had turnip pickle - but love the sound of the colour - beetroot for colour of course!

[Jacqueline]

I have never heard of this before, it sounds fab, even though it is tinged with sad memories.

[Callipygia]

Ahh the homely turnip given a facelift. Love it, especially with falafel!

Powerful enough to evoke a special friendship.

[Lucy]

Thanks, all. It was a funny post, this one, but I always say go with it, even though it's uncomfortable (and makes you worry that your readers may wonder 'why?').

I always get a little introspective on and around my birthday. Those pickles...they are fabulous and probably the prettiest thing I've ever made!

[ran]

i am growing some turnips this year as i got the seeds for free and had planned to make this so thankyou for the recipe!