Power to the Pontack

It was early, too early really, in the morning at the start of the working week when I picked up a package of some value that was created in the mid-nineteen eighties and had been delivered to the local corner shop. It was a shop adjoining a housing estate containing memories of sports entertainment, made by many long gone, from the 1980s and  early1990s and a certain kind of edge and danger that raised itself at the end of the noughties. 

However, opposite the shop was a park where daffodils with flowerheads the colour of bright turmeric bloomed and butterflies with tangerine wing-tips flitted effortlessly in late April to mark the arrival of a new summer. The park led to a building that had a slanted roof and a construction that was akin to the design of houses made of Lego that first went on sale nearly forty years ago. It was there, just four clear days later, where I joined a holy host of others for some much needed calmness over a continental breakfast. 

The day in question was the first Saturday in September, a date where historically a physical and mental re-set after the end of summer normally takes place. This first Saturday was no exception after what was, from a career, sporting, social and emotional point of view, a successful summer. However, due to changes in people far and near old and new, it all felt different this time. Such feelings however were tempered by a familiar chat, with one of my oldest friends, about foraging and the multitude of exciting and wonderful recipes that can be found in the wild, wild woods at this time of year. 

One such recipe is to make a savoury sauce out of elderberries. Elderberries are at their best at the end of August and the start of September. As I have done on many occasions since 1988, the same year I met my friend, I found myself wandering towards the woods near my childhood home. It was not long before I stumbled into a field soaked in mist at the edge of which hung a clump of Elderberries that glistened like wet leather and hung from iridescent red stems. I grabbed them gratefully and headed home to get away from the claustrophobic fog. 

Inspired by my good friend's recommendation, I settled upon a recipe that Henry VIII used to put on his venison meals. Pontack sauce, which is made with elderberries and can include shallots. In the days before tomatoes reached our shores, this sauce was the aristocrat's choice to go to in flavouring their meals. 

It is often made by baking the ingredients in the oven for a number of hours. However my recipe was a shortcut that  reduced my carbon footprint considerably. As I commenced cooking; on the player was some music of apparent blackness, that in fact hid in plain sight swathes of sardonic humour and life affirming goodness. The music was Leonard Cohen's set at the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival. Walking out onto the stage in the small hours to a tired and increasingly hostile crowd; Cohen's dry authority and impeccable timing in his introduction to the setlist blunted their anger and his set, brought to life by a sparse backing band and Cohen's unmistakeable baritone, had the audience eating from the palm of his hand as they clapped and sang along like they were his best friends hanging out with him down the pub. 

Against this backdrop, the recipe was as follows:   

200 grams of the fresh Elderberries I had foraged earlier that day.

2 tablespoons of Onion Salt. 

Quarter of a pint of White Wine Vinegar.

A teaspoon of ground Black Pepper.

The first job was to remove the stems from the Elderberries. They are neon red for a reason, to advertise their toxicity and eating more than a couple of them will give you an upset stomach. Having removed the stems, I washed the berries thoroughly and placed them in a saucepan with all the other ingredients and mixed them together. 

The next job was to place the pan on the hob and bring the mixture to boil. Once this had happened, I simmered the mixture for twenty minutes. The next task was to set the Pontack to one side and let it cool. Once it had cooled I placed it in a sterilised jar; but not before sniffing it to realise that it had a rich smell that leant itself to being enjoyed with an indulgent joint of meat, such as venison or rump steak, as comfort food on a gloomy Autumn Sunday.