Real mustards and a piccalilli. The British plate I grew up on — made properly, with the seed that was Canadian all along.
Most of the world's mustard seed grows on the Canadian prairies. It ships to France, and comes back ground and jarred at a markup. We grow it. We just don't make it. So I am.
There's a plate I grew up on. Bread, a wedge of sharp cheese, a spoon of piccalilli, a smear of hot English that cleared your head. A Melton Mowbray pork pie, a Scotch egg cut in half. A ploughman's — you built it at the table, your own way.
Rebecca made the piccalilli. My grandmother. Cauliflower gone gold, the vinegar bite sitting just under the sweetness. I've not tasted one like it since.
Half of it you can't get here. Piccalilli worth eating. Hot English with real lift. The dark, smooth mustard I haven't had in years — not Dijon, the other one, the one that went with everything.
Thirty years on the line, and a bench where I get it right. Brown and yellow seed from the prairies, malt vinegar, salt, time. Soaked cold so the heat stays sharp instead of cooking off. No novelty, no maple for the sake of it — the things I actually miss, made properly.
Becky's piccalilli first. Then the rest of the plate.
Cauliflower with the crunch still in it. Turmeric gold, sharp and sweet at once, the vinegar arriving a half-second behind and cutting clean through. My grandmother's, made the proper way — salted first so it stays crisp, never boiled soft, no gloopy thickener.
Whole seeds, half of them bursting between your teeth. Texture first, then the heat builds and settles warm. The workhorse — whisk it into a dressing, stir it into the pan after a steak. The jar that empties before the others.
The one that clears your head. Bright, fierce, gone almost as fast as it comes. Made sharp and made fresh — no vinegar drowning it, no sugar talking it down. The jar with a temper. Treat it with respect.
Dark, smooth, mild where the others have edges. You'll know it even if you've forgotten its name — the one everybody called French. It never was. The quiet one that goes with everything.
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