Chamber pots, basins, and a very large head of romaine

It was the biggest head of romaine I had ever seen, almost as large as my torso. Unlike the long, tubular variety, this head had leaves that stretched outwards like a dahlia with its face to the sun. I picked one up from the bed of ice where it sat at the market, bought it and placed it gingerly, like a toddler, on the back seat of the car.

There’s a trick to dressing a head of lettuce like this. With the lettuce intact, wash the leaves by submerging the whole head in a basin of water, then shake it to dry. Whisk a dressing¹ in the base of a big, flat bowl, then holding onto the core of the lettuce head, swirl the leaves around in the dressing. When the underside of the lettuce is dripping, tear out the core and let the leaves fall loose into the bowl. 

Sounds simple enough, unless the head of lettuce is as large as your torso. Fortunately there was a chamber basin in the kitchen, substantial enough to fit the whole thing. 

The chamber basin was made by the Copeland Spode company, manufacturers of English bone china. The pattern, made exclusively for Harrods in the early 1900’s, is called ‘Peplow,’ with sprays of blue dahlias, pink lily of the valley and purple forget-me-nots dancing around the bowl.

This particular basin came from my mother-in-law’s great uncles’ home in Buckinghamshire, England. I pluralized ‘uncle’ because there were two living together in a rambling farmhouse with grand rooms for entertaining in the front and smaller rooms with lower ceilings in the back. They both loved to hunt, but knew they could not afford wives and horses. They chose horses. I imagine the brothers riding together past Tudor estates then heading deep into an English forest of oaks, ash and giant willows. When they returned they would leave their riding boots on the slate tiles in the boot room then retreat to their respective bedrooms where they would wash at their porcelain basins. Was it Harold or Oswald who dipped his flannel into this basin and washed his face and armpits? We’ll never know. But now there is a slick of dill dressing in the basin, along with an enormous head of romaine. 

I wonder what our friend Jan would say. She nearly fainted when she witnessed my mother washing Chloe, our cocker spaniel, in our kitchen sink. Jan came from a place where dogs were for hunting, they lived outside and bathed in lakes and rivers. Kitchen sinks were for food prep and washing dishes. It was all so unsanitary! But my mother had a system. When we washed dishes, a plastic basin was placed inside the sink and filled with hot, soapy water - dishes would never touch the sink itself. When not dishwashing, the wide, porcelain sink with an extendable spray tap was ideal for rinsing a soapy, smelly dog. I remember Chloe standing there with just her head visible, eyes downcast, curly ears dripping with water and one droopy cheek folded into her mouth like an embarrassed bell's palsy patient. She didn’t want to be in that sink either, but it was efficient and practical. The sink got a good scrubbing afterwards. Clean enough, at least, to wash lettuce. 

When the uncles died the chamber sets - all eight of them - were shipped to my mother-in-law in Canada. There was also a tall linen press cabinet in the shipping container, along with an assortment of Harold and Oswald’s school trophies. The linen press is now home to every board game imaginable. The trophies sit on a shelf by the fireplace. The chamber sets have been separated over the years: the porcelain pitchers make great flower vases, most of the basins were given away as gifts, and one was dropped by a child over the edge of a staircase and smashed on the floor below. The location of the chamber pots remains a mystery. But two basins remain in this kitchen, stacked where they belong beneath the rest of the salad bowls. 

Photo, for scale.

1. *In true ‘use what you have’ fashion, the salad dressing pictured here comes from a bottle - Renée’s cucumber and dill. I added more lemon juice, fresh dill and a few swigs of olive oil to cut the thickness. If conditions were perfect, I would have made Fanny Singer’s herb-heavy Green Goddess dressing, posted here. Creamy, fresh and drippy, that’s the idea.