UNCLE NORMAN KIRK'S SABZI BHAJI

A young Norman Kirk on fire, whacking the duck.

Uncle Norman Kirk was my favourite uncle, well....... I had more to do with him and he was lively and fascinating. Yup, I had a number of good uncles but I think he was the favourite. For a Yorkshire born chap who was largely self educated and was employed in the South East Kent coalfield planning division, he was a surprisingly exotic species. For one thing he had a continual flow of girlfriends, and that for me was something to aspire to. He also owned a number of Vauxhall motor cars which were in various stages of restoration, and in the late 1950s and early 60s a car owner in Deal, Kent had prestige, and the owner of a number of cars had even more. He used to take his girlfriends out a-courting in his car, and often took me along, which, when I think back, irritated them no end. Still, I imagine that I must have served my purpose. "Frisby's my nephew, I promised our Dot I'd take him out for a couple of hours, he's a good lad and he'll sit quiet won't you Fris?".  As you must have gathered I was Frisby, in fact he had a number of nicknames for his nephews and nieces: Stuart was Tex, Glenn was Curly, John was Rastus, Jimmy was Nicodemus, and I'm unable to recall Colleen and Moira's names.

Uncle Norman was an enthusiastic rare film collector, particularly of old Westerns, and he later arranged private screenings for the kids of the family. He also had his own small band and he led the NCB Kent Colliery Dixieland Jazz Band. He was a drummer, an excellent drummer in fact and his drum kit was very flash for those times with all the tom toms, bells and whistles.

Each Saturday we kids would go to the Saturday morning movies at the Royal picture theatre, or sometimes the Odeon, anyway in between films a short feature would be played and one Saturday I couldn't believe my eyes when up on the big screen, in front of everyone, there was Uncle Norman playing his drums in the eight piece Dixieland band.

"That's my uncle, that's my uncle", I excitedly exclaimed. "No it's not". "Yes it is, honest - come home with me and I'll show him to you". And so, half a dozen kids rolled up to Nanna Kirk's house at 85 Golf Road, and there was Uncle Norman who was out of bed and polishing his car, which was unusual at that time of day. "See, told you, there he is, that's him there". Norman protested innocence of the whole thing, but of course he had arranged it. He was that sort of person, he had a great mischievous streak.

His Christmas presents were legendary and awesome as they say now. Back then, we put our bids in after Guy Fawke's Night on November 5, anticipating our dreams of Robin Hood suits, long barrel pistols like Marshall Matt Dillon used to gun down outlaws in black, or Davy Crockett hats. He once bought me a train set, not a simple set but one with a stack of track, and his condition was that a hole should be knocked in my parents' adjoining bedroom wall so that I could run the train under their bed and blast the whistle "first thing in the morning, Frisby". I was disappointed that my parents didn't think much of the idea.

He bought me a push bike one glorious Christmas morn, and I thought that he had forgotten my present until he told me to go outside, and there it was. Wow and golly gumdrops!! "Frisby's eyes were nearly popping out of his head" he recounted with glee. Another Christmas I was the proud owner of a medieval castle, no ordinary castle mind, this was a huge castle which took half the space of our "sitting room", where wars were fought, lost and won for many days. So you see Cara, Jamie and his football games, all four quarters, had a precedent. I would play for days, such was life at Ethelbert Road. Jolly times, what?

I seem to remember that Uncle Norman constructed the castle himself, and I could believe this, for he would fiddle under the bonnet of a car for hours. I could also believe that it had been donated by someone who owed him a favour - he had deals and connections, nothing shady mind, but contacts. I remember when Mrs Foulks the French mother of Pierre who lived at the top of our street slapped me hard on the cheek. My William Tell arrow with the sucker on it had failed to connect with the apple on top of Pierre's head, and had in fact connected dead smack centre of his forehead instead. Mrs Foulks was understandably upset, I can see now why, he could have lost an eye.

Anyway when Pierre screamed she had raced out and slapped me on the cheek with great force, which caused me to run home poste haste, rubbing my raw cheek and bawling. A slap on the face is not an English thing to do to a child, usually smacks on the bottom are de rigueur, or a threat to tell your parents, so I think that my parents were quite confused by this affront. Oh they knew it was an affront, not only to me, but to our Englishness. However, my Dad was a Scot, and the Scots had had dealings with the French in the past, and perhaps Barry had done the wrong thing here. My mother, the diminutive but feisty "Our Dot"  was incensed with that bloody French woman, " who does she think she is, coming here to this country with her foreign ways and slapping my son, MY child, you should do something John. I'll go up and give her a piece of my mind, by God I will."  "Drene, there is no need to swear". "Swear? I'll go and teach that woman a few choice English words I will". 

Anyway I don't recollect there being a confrontation which saw mother flipping Mrs Foulks to the ground and then applying Heanan's Hug to her before dragging her groggily to her feet and then throwing her at the brick wall full force, then boot to the face and apple up an orifice. Unfortunately none of this occurred to my recollection. No. The big guns were called in. Uncle Norman in fact drove around to the Foulk's residence, as he had done on a number of other nocturnal occasions, and gave the woman a right good telling off. A right good telling off. Put her in her place, I think mother said, put her in her place and quite rightly so, she'll think twice next time. 

Mahatma Coat was a strange Friday night visitor to 85 Golf Road for about a month or so in 1959. That was Norman's name for him. His real name was written on the final receipt as Vitruparti Cadwallader, alongside "final payment fifty pounds", Uncle Norman gave me the receipt, that's how I know. I can see him now, a large rotund dark chap with a fleshy cheery face and wobbly lips beneath a thin moustache. He gave the impression of being a very busy person as he bustled in from his car with the envelope and covered dish, saying "the greatest pleasure to see you once more Mrs Kirk, please be doing me the honour of presenting this to Mr Norman, as arranged under the terms of our agreement".

Nanna didn't seem too impressed by this foreign person in her home, in fact I think she was still coming to terms with her Scot and Welsh sons-in-law, my Dad and Uncle Eddie. "Oh aye, and how much longer do we have the pleasure of your visits?"  "The next drop will be the final one Mrs Kirk, but in accordance with our little arrangement the recipe will be handed over and you will have no trouble in the cooking of it." "Oh don't you worry my lad, there'll be nowt of that stuff cooked in my pans, if he wants it he can mak't himself elsewhere". Mr Cadwallader found this most amusing, "Oh Mrs Kirk you are a one".

It was during this time that Uncle Norman took me for another of his jaunts in the Vauxhall, only this time there was no Audrey, Glenys or Daphne. She was in fact a beautiful Indian lady called Anjali, a cousin of Mr Cadwallader, and we collected her from his fine flat in the smart end of town near the hospital. She had warm dark skin and a wonderful smile and bright happy eyes and unlike the Audreys and Daphnes was pleased to see me perched in the back, and immediately showed an interest, asking me about my family, my school and my sporting activities.

I loved her at once. Her perfume reminded me of Summer, of oranges, tangerines and hay, something I could not define but was warm, cosy and luscious.  I saw her just this once, we had a lovely time parked on the cliffs at Kingsdown chatting away, eating fish and chips and watching the sea, and laughing at the seagulls as they fought for the chips we tossed. Uncle Norman said that she always asked after me when he saw her, but he didn't see her much anymore because she had moved to London.  

Usually on a Saturday morning when I called in after the pictures Uncle Norman was still in bed; a late night playing at the dance was taking it's toll.  At the time of The Arrangement with Mr Cadwallader the wonderful aroma of Indian spices filled Nanna's house, and Norman was called down to his breakfast/lunch. "Norman, Norman" she called up the stairs, "Barry's here and your fancy food is on the table. I don't know what the neighbours must think with this smell all over Golf Road. Go up and get him out of bed love, tell him it'll be stone cold if he waits any longer and I shan't be warming it." Nanna had opened all the windows, for despite having told Mr C. that it wouldn't taint her pans, she'd had to warm it in the oven.

Under the terms of The Arrangement, the recipe was duly deposited along with the final payment although I don't remember the exotic aroma permeating the steadfast Yorkshire resolve at number 85 ever again. Uncle Norman moved to a house at Kingsdown following his marriage to Audrey. There were many Western motifs there and he named it Chuck-a-Luck after cowboy star Roy Roger's ranch. He had an underground cinema excavated out of the chalk beneath the house and they found relics of old Roman and Saxon life. The local newspaper reported it and added that he owned the largest private collection of films in Europe.  By that time though we'd left for Australia, and along with a five pound note he'd slipped me the receipt and recipe, which is now an heirloom in a way, and a recipe for something greater perhaps than the sum of it's parts:

2 carrot big

2 potato big

2 onion not so big

2 fresh long chilli, red or green

1 tablespoon ground coriander

1 and 1 half teaspoon ground turmeric

2 tablespoon ghee

2 tablespoon oil

1 and 1 half teaspoon ginger grated

1 half cup mixed coriander and mint

2 tomato big and ripe and dice ready

1 cup yoghurt

1 and 1 half teaspoon salt

lemon juice

1.                  peel each carrot and cutting into squiggle [julienne]

2.                  chop onion and chilli

3.                  combine in bowl and toss with coriander and turmeric

4.                  listen to radio for thirty minutes

5.                  heat ghee and oil in frypan and add ginger

6.                  stir until golden

7.                  add mixed vegetables frying for few minutes

8.                  stir in tomato diced, yoghurt and salt, half herbs

9.                  cover cooking for 10 - 15 minutes to tender not soggy

10.              add half herb remaining, lemon juice to your licking [liking]

11.              serve on your best platter and thank your god

I have cooked this a number of times, and for me it always evokes that day on the cliff top at Kingsdown where the warmth of summer and the promise of giddy happiness lifted our senses away beyond the twelve mile English fishing boundary, beyond English emotion.

You can adapt to your larder, use any combination of vegetables eg.  zucchini, half cooked pumpkin, spinach, beans or peas, but you must have tomatoes. You can decrease the chilli strength by removing the seeds, you can use Thai or Vietnamese fish sauce in place of the salt, although this would not be true to Mr Cadwallader's Sindhi recipe. You can roast the coriander seeds and pestle them fine - this last is a welcome improvement, and always eat it thanking your God, remembering my Anjali, Mr Cadwallader and the late great Norman Kirk.

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