My Go-To Curry Recipe
Plus – the margarita I made on TV and one of my favourite cookbooks for warm weather hosting
Welcome to Quaintrelle, a weekly newsletter written by me, journalist-turned-sommelier and party host, Erin Henderson.
Would you be so kind as to click that little heart above?❤️
Here, I share my my insights from decades of working in hospitality to bring back stylish, laid-back and stress free hosting.
Won’t you join us?
In This Week’s Issue…
Recipe: A Reasonably Authentic Clean-Out-The-Fridge Chicken Curry
Wine: Vermentino – An Off the Beaten Path Italian White You Should Try
Cocktail: Pineapple-Jalepeño Margarita
Cookbook Recommendation: Oldie(ish) but a Goodie, the One I Return to Every Season
Battles with Nature. And Nurture.
An intruder was living in my parents’ shed.
My mum has complained to me, repeatedly, that I shouldn’t air our family’s dirty laundry, and even our clean pieces, for all to see. And in this case, read.
I’ve ignored her so far, and really don’t have any intentions of heeding her advice any time soon. So, maman, if you’re reading, you may want to sit down.
It appears the extended Henderson family has a lot in common. Not just blood lines and good looks, but our annual battles with nature. Or, the animals that come with nature, more or less.
It’s getting to be that time when I take up arms against pigeons looking to nest. I’m generally an animal lover but if pigeons were to disappear from the planet my heart would go on. If you’ve been following along for a while, you might remember last year’s story where I debased myself with a tennis racket and a bare bottom whilst trying to evict a stubborn bird in the middle of the night. You can catch up on my nude pigeon hunting below.
My sister has her battles as well. Though hers are not with pigeons, but a bold racoon, or maybe several of them, who live in her tree-lined backyard. They’re mostly harmless – even super cute – though one year, when her son, Milo, was a wee tot, a rather rude racoon decided to nap in Milo’s pram that was left on the front porch. Milo, a barely speaking toddler, was rightfully offended, and when he pointed it out, instead of scampering away, the racoon merely yawned, and, I kid you not, used his little racoon hand to close the overhead visor. Milo and mum were ceremoniously dismissed by an oversized rodent with narcolepsy.
Babs has not had to deal with racoons. Until this year.
My parents live on the edge of their city. While they’re still on a suburban street, their home is a literal block from farmland. When the wind blow the right way, it smells like a good Burgundy.
They’ve dealt with nesting rabbits making a buffet of their lawn, vandalous squirrels stealing their Christmas lights, and the annual spring landing from a duck-couple (she a murky and evolutionized brown, and he a regal, green-headed mallard) who used the pool for a day of rest on their way back from wintering down south. The cat absolutely lost his mind, circling the pool with a hunter’s focus, but my parents skillfully kept him away from the fowl couple, whose only thanks was to taunt him with their smug quacks.
This year my parents met their match.
