Chablis and Pelargoniums for Mrs Dalloway



Studying the novels of Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre at university, I invested in a packet of Gitanes and listened to Juliette Greco on vinyl; moving on to James Joyce, I took up Guinness and spoke in impossibly dense sentences. D. H. Lawrence was out of fashion then, or who knows where that could have led. And then came Virginia Woolf. Obviously, I clumped about in sturdy brogues for a while; I also developed a new-found interest in flowers. I can still remember reading Mrs Dalloway on a sunny park bench in London’s Regent’s Park and being deeply impressed by Sally Seton’s iconoclastic approach to flower-arranging. (When will I ever get the chance to combine iconoclasm and floristry in a single sentence again?)

  • Sally’s power was amazing, her gift, her personality. There was her way with flowers, for instance. At Bourton they always had stiff little vases all the way down the table. Sally went out, picked hollyhocks, dahlias – all sorts of flowers that had never been seen together – cut their heads off, and made them swim on the top of water in bowls. The effect was extraordinary – coming in to dinner in the sunset.

I thought of Sally Seton and her cavalier scissors, snipping wildly at never-before seen combinations of flowers, when I walked round my very clever friend‘s newly-emergent wildflower meadow today. If some gardens are in training to be municipal roundabouts, my friend’s garden is limbering up to be a Garden of Eden tribute act. As I trailed from one billowing mound of flowers to another, it was raining that very British kind of rain that stealthily adorns everything in a glossy mist, while everyone says brightly that “it’s hardly wet at all.”


Sally Seton would have had a field day with her scissors in that meadow. And both she and Virginia Woolf would have loved the rose-scented cake, filled with whipped cream and Chablis and lemon jelly that I made afterwards. The extravagance and luxuriousness of Chablis is included for Virginia Woolf, whose poor rations inspired her to write A Room of One’s Own. The cake, infused with leaves from the Attar of Roses pelargonium or geranium, is for Sally Seton.

Leaves from the Attar of Roses pelargonium smell as good as any rose, perhaps even better, because their fragrance is more substantial, less ephemeral. George Eliot understood the rose pelargonium’s worth and made it a metaphor for unselfishness in Scenes of Clerical Life:

  •  But the sweet spring came to Milby notwithstanding: the elm-tops were red with buds; the churchyard was starred with daisies; the lark showered his love-music on the flat fields; the rainbows hung over the dingy town, clothing the very roofs and chimneys in a strange transfiguring beauty. And so it was with the human life there, which at first seemed a dismal mixture of griping worldliness, vanity, ostrich feathers, and the fumes of brandy: looking closer, you found some purity, gentleness, and unselfishness, as you may have observed a scented geranium giving forth its wholesome odours amidst blasphemy and gin in a noisy pot-house.

Tucking a few rose pelargonium leaves into the tins, when making a sponge, infuses the cake with a floral flavour so subtle that it’s hard to know where it’s come from or if it’s really there at all. Adding the round, rich, buttery flavour of Chablis to the lemon jelly makes it the ideal match for the cream.



  • 2 lemons – peel and juice
  • 95g caster sugar
  • 10g sheet gelatine
  •  275ml Chablis
  • 450ml water

Pare the rind thinly from the lemons – in one piece if you’re competitive, but it really doesn’t matter – and place in a pan with the water, wine and the sugar. Heat gently until the liquid starts to simmer. Remove the pan from the heat and add the juice from both lemons. Allow to infuse. Soak the gelatine sheets in a bowl of cold water for five minutes. When the time is up, squeeze the sheets out as though ringing-out a dishcloth and whisk them into the water, wine, sugar and lemon until dissolved. Strain the liquid into a bowl. Cover with clingfilm and place in the fridge. It will take around four hours to set. The consistency you’re looking for is that freestyle, slightly unhinged wobble that looks as though it won’t be enough to keep the contents of the bowl under control, until, at the last minute, its natural sense of decorum reins it back in again – just. There will be more than enough for the cake, so save the rest to eat later with some fresh berries.


  • 8-10 fresh leaves from the Attar of Roses pelargonium
  • 230g plain flour
  • 4 teaspoons baking powder
  • pinch of salt
  • 230g caster sugar
  • 230g softened unsalted butter
  • 4 medium eggs
  • 150ml double cream for the filling
  • 2x20cm cake tins, greased with butter and lined at the bottom with baking parchment

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees C.

Arrange four or five leaves on the base of each of the two greased and papered cake tins. Combine the flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, butter and eggs, either by hand or in a mixer at a slow speed. Divide the mixture between the two cake tins, pouring it over the leaves. Bake for 25-30 minutes until golden brown. When cool, remove the sponges from the tins and peel the leaves off the base of each. Whip the cream. Spread the Chablis jelly on one half and top with the whipped cream. Place the second half of sponge on the top and dust with liberal amounts of icing sugar.


 The Chablis, lemon and rose pelargonium cake has the beguiling flavours of Turkish Delight, the charm of a wildflower meadow. Eat it outside on a British summer’s day and you won’t notice the rain. If there are wildflowers to look at while you eat, so much the better.



  1. Oh wow, a feast for all the senses. Love your description of that so British rain and the beautiful wild gardens. I’d never though of using rose geraniums for baking and now am raring to try it – ours don’t look exactly like yours but have that wonderful perfumey scent, so I guess they’d work.

    1. I’m sure they’d work – and the apple-scented ones too, I should think. The cake works well with a filling of rose petal jelly too, if you want more rose oomph.

  2. Ooooh, the close-up of the digitalis made me gasp. I wonder at the beauty of Nature and marvel at your ability to capture it with your camera. May I share this blog with friends and family?

    1. I’d rather like a dress in a digitalis print, or even a Virginia Woolf suit. Please feel free to share-away – the garden really is magnificent and so much labour has gone into it.

  3. I too visited this beautiful meadow on Sunday 25th May – it has developed more over those few days so I will need to return! Meadows are a huge workload, as I well know, but nurturing food for the soul.

    1. I had no idea how much toil was involved, but the results are quite breathtaking. It sounds as though you have personal experience of the extraordinary effort involved.

  4. Delightfully evocative of an English spring, food and all. I love the way you have combined shots of the meadow landscape with close ups like the one of the White Campion. The results of the recipes look, as always, delicious.
    To those foodies of a literary disposition Eggs on the Roof remains a continual delight.

    1. The white campion is possibly my favourite, although it had very strong competition. It was a very wet day, but I rather like the way rain drops are clinging to everything.

  5. It’s funny, my son read Mrs Dalloway for his AS level. He started off loathing the book, but once he had read it in depth enough, he finally understood what it was all about, and liked it. You’ve really taken all that’s good from the book, and put it into this marvellous cake, and I’m sure it will produce a rye smile when I make it for him!

    1. It’s interesting that Woolf can take so long to love – but, as Elaine Showalter said, Woolf’s work is ‘one of the few genuine innovations in the history of the novel’.

  6. You can’t believe the effect this post has on someone as starved for rain and the English countryside as I am! As usual there is one particular sentence I want to frame: “If some gar­dens are in train­ing to be muni­cipal round­abouts, my friend’s garden is limber­ing up to be a Garden of Eden trib­ute act.”

    1. Funnily enough, I thought of you when I was writing this post. I know how much you love English gardens and I imagined how odd it must be to look at photographs of rain-soaked fox-gloves when the temperatures in Dubai are around 100.

  7. Just noticed that you’ve been blogging again so had a lovely catch up. Thank you for the recipes, photographs but especially the writing. Congratulations on your PhD.

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