Lady Marmalade

A British food quest leads to a farm in the Yorkshire Dales

The view out my window at Kestrel Cottage.

Naysayers malign British food, but let me set the record straight: none of them have stayed at North End Holiday Cottages in West Yorkshire and sat at the table of Liz and Tom Pratt. When I arrived at this bucolic compound of stone dwellings dating back to the 1500s, I was greeted by the aroma of fresh bread, the ultimate gesture of homespun hospitality.

The Pratt family home and Curlew Cottage.

Kestrel Cottage and Jenny’s house in the renovated barn.

The Pratt family home is at the end of the string of buildings, with two holiday cottages in the middle and a large barn at the other end that has been converted into an airy house for daughter Jenny and two rangy and engaging adolescent sons. Five inquisitive chickens peck around the henhouse, providing daily eggs, and scores of sheep graze between the stone walls that crisscross the green moor beyond the buildings.

The productive yard livestock and the sheep beyond.

Liz and I met in Colorado six years ago at a playground where we regularly went with another local grandma, Kristin Gilbert, who lives in Boulder in a tiny house adjacent to her daughter’s family home. We bonded over tales of grandparenting duties and the joys and trials thereof. We have stayed in touch with monthly video chats between Colorado, England, Wyoming, and Pennsylvania through Covid and now post-pandemic. The grandchildren have progressed through elementary school into middle school, and we have shared the joys of their sports and academic accomplishments and recipes, always recipes.

The marmalade was the draw, well worth every mile.

During last January’s video chat, Liz told us about the 58 jars of marmalade she had just made with Seville oranges, which lit a bright orange fire in me. I knew that we were, in some way, soul sisters. I had never been to England and never had homemade marmalade. When I mentioned that, Liz countered with, “You should come,” and I said, “When?” She replied, “June.” Here I am.

Trading the sunny Jersey shore for West Yorkshire was a shift. There is no need for a bathing suit, rather multiple jackets and raingear. I’m sorry I didn’t bring gloves. It hasn’t rained continually, but each day, there are showers and then a brilliant, short-lived sun. It’s all been perfect.

Lunch on arrival the first day.

After a quick nap for me, Liz served a lunch of her fresh-from-the-bread-maker whole grain loaf with vegetable soup, broccoli quiche, and salad. For dessert, tea was accompanied by her homemade cake and cookies, which she calls biscuits. I especially enjoyed the Parrot Crunch, a wholesome shortbread with pumpkin and sunflower seeds. The Boiled Fruit Cake was rich and fruity, with a deep flavor.

After lunch, we drove to Skipton to see the outdoor market, but most vendors had washed away. We stopped at a grocery store to pick up fish for dinner, and I marveled at the array of butters and other alternatives available.

Cheese selection at the outdoor market in Skipton and a supermarket butter display case.

Liz chose haddock to go along with the salmon and shrimp she had in the freezer for a fish pie. Being conscious of eating healthfully and providing proper nutrition for her family, Liz makes fish twice a week for Tom, although she doesn’t eat fish. (That’s a love language.) Perhaps it is also why she and Tom have spawned a race of very fit giants—fourteen-year-old Bob, at just under 6 feet, is nearly as tall as his grandfather and as lean as an unbuttered green bean.

Ted, Bob, and Tom Pratt—tall, taller, and tallest, though not for long.

I watched Liz quickly assemble the Fish Pie, with the haddock poached in milk and the salmon and leeks cooked in the microwave. A white sauce loaded with fresh parsley covered the chunks of fish, shrimp, and leeks, and the crown of mashed potatoes was scored with a fork for texture.

The Fish Pie with a mashed potato topping came together quickly and we sat by the fire in the dining room for dinner.

Our dessert that night was a “pudding” consisting of stewed raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries from the greenhouse that we topped with pouring custard and heavy cream or non-dairy yogurt. And more biscuits, as desired, and, of course, more tea.

Make your own pudding at the dinner table.

We toured the estate grounds, checking out the greenhouse and the old stable where a famous stud horse, Ready Money, plied his trade in 1838. An owl carved from an old pine tree kept a close watch.

We walked the grounds after dinner and visited the greenhouse and the old barn.

The next day was Sunday, and both Liz and Tom were in a concert at the Methodist church that afternoon to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the ladies’ choir and raise money for a hospice group. Many villagers turned out for the afternoon’s genteel entertainment, including a handbell performance and solos by Tom and another gentleman from the village. At intermission, the Methodist ladies served tea in china cups and biscuits to the 100 or so attendees.

After a walk along the canal in Silsden, we drove to Skipton for a proper Sunday roast at The Railway, where I had an authentic Yorkshire pudding on top of a massive pile of roast beef served with delicious vegetables and a nice glass of Malbec. We chatted with two German men at the next table who were on a three-week motorbike tour of England, Scotland, and Wales. They were happy to be dry and in the pub after lashing rain, and we commiserated over the sorry state of global politics.

The Sunday Roast at The Railway included Savoy cabbage, broccolini, baby carrots, potatoes, and mashed rutabaga draped with local beef sirloin and delicious gravy. Yorkshire Pudding crowned the assembly, topped with pea shoots.

The next time I hear someone disparaging British food, I will beg to differ. But the weather, on that I will have to agree.